


An Eorzean Starlight Suite and Further Adventures of the Ishgard Opera Ballet

by PetrarchanConceit



Series: An Eorzean Starlight Suite [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV, The Nutcracker --Hoffmann, The Nutcracker Ballet-- Petipa, The Nutcracker Suite --Tchaikovsky
Genre: Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Frottage, Heavy Petting, M/M, Projection of Contemporary Ideological Values for the Purpose of Political Allegory, Spoilers through 5.3, Vaginal Sex, cavalier!aymeric, clara!nanamo, detectiveinspector!artoirel, detectivesuperintendent!lucia, drosselmeyer!urianger, fritz!pepin, nutcrackerprince!alphinaud, sugarplum!estinien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetrarchanConceit/pseuds/PetrarchanConceit
Summary: "I can only imagine how mortified the poor man would be if he walked in on us like this.  He is nigh-on eighty-years old, Estinien.  He'd likely have some sort of apoplexy and then Merlwyb would likely have my head," Aymeric sighed through his laughter and brushed his fringe from his forehead.  "This production of the Starlight Suite is meant to foster a sense of unity, camaraderie, among the city-states in the Eorzean alliance.  I'm to be Ishgard's contribution, the Starlight Cavalier -- well, the both of us are. You're to be my Sugarplum.""You'd really have us dance a lovers' dance before all of Eorzea," Estinien asked, voice catching for a different reason, his throat tightening as he forced himself to swallow down the threat of tears."I would," Aymeric replied, looking up sharply.  "How is 'Estinien de Borel' ever to become a reality if we don't get folk used to the idea?"
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Lucia goe Junius/Artoirel de Fortemps, Urianger Augurelt/Moenbryda Wilfsunnwyn, Urianger Augurelt/Warrior of Light
Series: An Eorzean Starlight Suite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934875
Comments: 185
Kudos: 48





	1. En Dedans

**Author's Note:**

> Starting around this time of year for the last ten years or so, my weekends become completely devoted to the preparations necessary for my becoming a waltzing flower, some snow, an angel, and Clara and Fritz's mother. I tape up my toes, bun-up my hair, and haul my kids and myself over to the studio for yet another eight-hour sojourn. And I'd bitch about it -- about the time, about having to go en pointe to make up the numbers in our corps, and about that damned "Flowers" tutu that makes me look like a frothy pink cupcake with too much icing spilling over the sides.
> 
> I miss it this year. Alot. So, I've decided to subject the denizens of Eorzea to their own Nutcracker preparations -- Aymeric and Estinien first, and then, perhaps, I'll finally try my hand at the Eorzean closest to my heart. I mean, come on, the man does speak in Elizabethan English.

"This thing's damned uncomfortable, Aymeric," Estinien griped, trying to adjust himself within the strange, thong-like undergarment his lover insisted was a necessary precaution to practicing ballet.

  
"Hmm, you're not wearing it correctly," Aymeric replied, "that's the problem." He pressed up close behind the other man, swept the dragoon's curtain of platinum hair over his right shoulder to keep it out of the way, and then reached from behind to nudge down the front of his partner's white ballet tights, tucking his hand inside. "A dance belt is meant to immobilize your sack, to hold it out in front so you don't catch your balls 'twixt your thighs when you leap and turn," he explained, taking gentle hold of Estinien's cock.

  
Immediately, he felt his lover's breath catch at the contact, felt his own breath speed up in response, and allowed himself to press a soft kiss to Estinien's bare neck before returning to the issue at hand. Well, _in_ hand really, he thought to himself, cringing internally at his own ridiculous predilection for punning.

  
"It cannot perform this function," he said aloud, clearing his throat and trying to focus, "if you insist on...positioning yourself as you would in your shorts," he continued. "In this case, "cock up" is a good thing; it needs to be pointed straight up toward your navel, at "twelve o'clock," Aymeric explained, adjusting the dragoon's penis so it pointed upwards. Estinien used the opportunity thus presented to press himself back into his Lord Commander, arching his back and rubbing his ass slowly up and down over Aymeric's correctly positioned length so that the dark-haired man could feel himself hardening within his own dance belt. Restraint momentarily abandoned, Aymeric couldn't help but start stroking his silver-haired love, feeling Estinien thicken as the dragoon turned his head to catch his knight's lips in a soft kiss.

  
"Mmmm, Estinien," Aymeric exhaled, his voice raspy, "much as I want you, we can't. Master Pierrault will arrive any moment." Estinien silenced his protesting lover by flicking his tongue against Aymeric's softly parted mouth, his cavalier's own tongue slipping out from between his lips to lap, kittenish, at the dragoon's for but a beat before Estinien felt his mouth rapidly vibrating with his lover's snickering.

"What is it," the dragoon asked, releasing Aymeric from the contact.

  
"I can only imagine how mortified the poor man would be if he walked in on us like this. He is nigh-on eighty-years old, Estinien. He'd likely have some sort of apoplexy and then Merlwyb would likely have _my head_ ," Aymeric sighed through his laughter and brushed his fringe from his forehead. "This production of the Starlight Suite is meant to foster a sense of unity, camaraderie among the city-states in the Eorzean alliance. I'm to be Ishgard's contribution, the Starlight Cavalier -- well, the both of us are. You're to be my Sugarplum."

  
"You'd really have us dance a lovers' dance before all of Eorzea," Estinien asked, voice catching for a different reason, his throat tightening as he forced himself to swallow down the threat of tears.

  
"I would," Aymeric replied, looking up sharply. "How is 'Estinien de Borel' ever to become a reality if we don't get folk used to the idea?"

  
Estinien made a tight noise in his throat, a gasping hiccough and Aymeric could see he was straining to keep down the tears he found so mortifying. "Oh, my love, don't cry," the knight whispered softly, turning the dragoon around so that he could gather him fully in his arms.

  
Estinien rested his head on Aymeric's shoulder, nodding against it and swallowing. His lord gave him time to collect himself. "Well," the knight said, finally, gesturing to the dance belt, "does it feel better now?" Estinien broke from Aymeric's embrace, shimmied his hips, and bounced up and down a little on the balls of his feet before starting to prance, feeling the exertion spread warmth through his feet and ankles.

  
"It does actually," the dragoon returned. Aymeric continued to watch fondly as the silver-haired elezen progressed through his warm-up, light from gothic-arched windows refracting off the mirror-lined wall opposite to illuminate Estinien, bathing him in radiance, a Halonic Angel dressed all in white -- the tights chosen by the Lord Commander himself, though with far from angelic intent; white ballet tights left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Aymeric had chosen black tights for himself, the traditional uniform of white, short-sleeved top and black tights, both skin-tight to better expose the line of the body, making it easier for the ballet master to make adjustments.

  
Ishgard's First Knight, two years past, had commissioned this studio to be built within the very walls of the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly, with an understanding that the intense physical conditioning inherent in the art of the dance might be good for all his knights, really, but most especially for the knights dragoon, who might choose to replace some of their more draconian training methods with this somewhat less brutal practice.

  
"We still have a few minutes," Aymeric said, glancing at the chronometer on the wall. "Come let me help you feel how to 'turn out' properly." He guided Estinien to face the mirrors and positioned himself directly behind his lover again, pressing his own chest against the dragoon's back and wrapping his arms around him from behind, resting his hands on the other man's hips.

"I thought we were meant to avoid giving the old man an attack," quipped Estinien, finding his lover pressed close against his back again. Aymeric laughed against his neck, pressed one hand flat against the front of his right hip and slid his other hand down against Estinien's left thigh.

  
"Here," said Aymeric. "Press your feet close together, pointing forward, parallel to one another." Estinien complied. "Now, keeping your heels together, still touching, slide the toes of each foot to point toward opposite walls," the dark-haired knight continued.

  
Estinien slid his toes away from one another, intuitively turning out from his hips so that his feet extended beyond the usual "V" of a ballet novice to align themselves in a perfect flat line underneath him, the toes of each foot pointing in exactly opposite directions, as Aymeric had instructed.

  
"Ah," chuckled Aymeric. "I should have known you'd be a natural. That, my dear," he said pointing Estinien to look toward his own reflection in the mirror, "is a perfect first position." He shook his head at his own reflection in the mirror, somewhat in awe of Estinien's immediate mastery of turn-out. "The inclination of many beginners is to turn out their feet beyond what their hips can accommodate, so that they twist their knees," he continued. "I should have known, however, having experienced for myself the full extent of your, uh, of your _range of motion_ ..." here he broke off. Estinien watched his knight's face in the mirror as it reddened and heard him clear his throat and swallow hard before he paused to press yet another light kiss to the back of the dragoon's neck. "I should have known," Aymeric began again, his hands only shaking slightly as he kept them lightly pressed to Estinien's hips, "that you would be unlikely to fall into that particular trap."

  
"Now," Aymeric said, taking a single deep breath, "engage your abdominals, using them to pull your torso up and out of your hips and stretch your spine up through your exquisitely lovely neck, my dearest," Aymeric said as he swept Estinien's hair over his right shoulder again, revealing the long slope of his swan-like neck, "until it feels as though the crown of your head meets the sky."

  
He paused a moment to slide his fingers up from Estinien's hips, over his broad shoulders, and then up either side of his neck to the very top of his head, easing the dragoon's crown skywards through the gentle analogy of his own loving touch. "Then," said the dark-haired man, continuing, "draw a straight line back down from the sky, through the very top of your head, and down, down, down through your heels into the ground itself." Aymeric pressed his hands flat against the front of Estinien's hips again and moved his own hips tight against the other man's glutes -- resisting the very intense urge to begin rutting against his lover's perfect ass -- and thus exerted the leverage necessary to immobilize his dragoon's lower body, allowing Estinien to really _feel_ the stretch as he lengthened his spine, pulling his upper body out of his hips.

"Excellent, my love," Aymeric said, watching the other man demonstrate nigh immaculate core control. "Now all that's left is the arms. Let's try second position arms," he said, nodding. "Extend them out along the same orientation as your toes," Aymeric instructed, "fingers reaching, elbows parallel to the ground, wrists held slightly higher than elbows..." Here Aymeric broke off again and simply stared at Estinien's reflection looking back at his own in the mirror. "Did you know, Estinien, "Aymeric asked, "that you have the most beguiling elbows?"

  
"What?" asked the dragoon, confused. "My elbows are...beguiling? You have a very strange sense of the word, I think, 'meric."

  
"Pray here me out," replied his lord, smiling. "For so many years after you had received your first set of drachen armor, before even you ascended to the black and gold of the Azure, your elbows and your lips, your sweet, sweet lips..." Aymeric trailed off here again, watching himself in the mirror as, clasping Estinien's chin, he drew his thumb slowly across those same sweet lips. Estinien, in response, darted out the very tip of his pale pink tongue and ran it across the calloused pad of his lord's thumb, eliciting a small, breathy moan from deep in Aymeric's throat. Clearing that same throat, trying to shake it free of all carnally-motivated moanings, and additionally, trying to again reclaim focus, to break his hooded gaze from where it was locked to Estinien's in the mirror, Aymeric looked down, pressing his face to the other man's shoulder.

  
"For so many years," Aymeric began again, trying yet again to catch his breath, "your elbows and your lips were the only exposed parts of your body," he explained. "That's all I had of you. Lips and Elbows. Elbows and lips. Days would pass, weeks e'en, with me seeing naught of you but elbows and lips."

  
Estinien laughed and craned his long neck over his left shoulder to softly mouth his lord's own sweet lips until Aymeric made a protesting noise against them, as if he still had something to say.

  
"Lips are understandable of course. I'd had many a dream about your lips, my love, before I'd ever had a chance to feel them on my own. Kissing them, of course, feeling them as they smoothed down my length, wrapping me in their heat," said the knight, his face taking on the hue of a candied cherry. "I had dreamed your lips a thousand different ways before I'd ever been granted their touch," he said, smiling ruefully at the memory of his long-endured pining. "My poor dear Yvonne," Aymeric said referring to his beloved housekeeper, "must have cursed your lips with all the sheets she very well knew I'd stained in the dreaming of them." He looked down, embarrassed, laughed at his younger self, and continued. "But after a while with nothing but elbows and lips to dream on, I turned my attentions to the former."

  
"My elbows?" The dragoon snorted.

  
"Indeed," replied his lord. "Your right elbow. The other was too often blocked by Gae Bolg. I'd fantasize about it as I stroked myself to completion, kissing it here," he said, bending to place a kiss at the sharp point of Estinien's elbow, still held parallel to the floor in second position. "And then I'd slide my tongue around," Aymeric said, using said tongue to demonstrate, " and press yet another soft kiss to the inside." He straightened, lifted his own right arm to clasp his lover's wrist within the circle of his hand, cradled the entire length of the dragoon's arm in his own, and turned it so that the soft underside was exposed. Bending again, the knight pressed his warm lips to the inside crease of his lover's elbow.

  
Estinien gasped, his body's acute sensitivity startling him. Elbows apparently _were_ somewhat arousing, he thought to himself.

  
"Hah!" a voice rang out behind the lovers, and Aymeric bolted up straight from where his lips were still pressed to Estinien's skin. Both men looked to the mirror, registering first their matching pair of deep red blushes and, then, the man who stood behind them at the entrance of the studio. The widest of grins was spread across his smooth brown face as he clapped his hands together, loudly, and let out a joyous musical laugh before moving to them on light, quick feet.

  
"Lord Speaker!" he said, rushing up to Aymeric, placing himself between the knight and the mirror, and grasping his beautiful face between both hands. He paused to regard the dark-haired man for a moment. "Ah," he said, "they did not speak amiss. 'Tis indeed the face of an angel," he continued, nodding once before placing a kiss on each of Aymeric's cheeks.

  
"And Ishgard's last and most mighty Azure Dragoon," said the man, turning to face Estinien. The silver-haired man looked down to the floor, his usual response when confronted with his past as the Azure. "Ah," said the man, but softly this time. "I see, my friend. We shall speak no more on that." Then he gently, with the utmost care, placed his right hand under Estinien's chin and urged his gaze up, before placing a less vigorous kiss on each of Estinien's silver-stubbled cheeks.

  
"Marvelous!" said the man, taking the walking stick he'd held clasped beneath his arm and placing it in front of him with both his hands clasped atop its smooth, metal knob. "What marvelous dancers are here for me!" the man exulted, laughing out loud again. Aymeric was already beaming, the older man's enthusiasm having thoroughly cheered him, and even Estinien felt his lips stretch a bit, spreading themselves into the semblance of a grin across his lower face.

  
Aymeric put on his "Leader of Ishgard" face, then, and gracefully bowed to the man. "Master Pierrault," he said, "we are honoured by your presence. I am Ser...."

"Marvelous! Marvelous!" interrupted the laughing man. "You move with such grace, Lord Aymeric. What a fine dance we will make on you."

"And, please, my honoured guest," Aymeric continued, "allow me to formally introduce Ser Estinien Wyr-"

"Ser Estinien," interjected the man yet again, catching the dragoon's gaze and looking deep therein with such warmth, such sympathy, that Estinien couldn't help but be astonished; he felt his own eyes widening in surprise.

"You, I believe," said the ballet master, "are a natural," he continued pointing his stick at Estinien's still turned-out feet. "A perfect turn-out! Sublime! Sublime!" he said, clasping his stick in both hands in lieu of clapping. "What a Sugarplum you shall be! I doubt I could have imagined one finer. May I?" asked the master, bending slightly toward Estinien's feet. The dragoon nodded.

If Master Pierrault was, indeed, as old as Aymeric had been informed -- and he certainly didn't look it with his smooth brown skin, his shaggy brown hair peppered through with salt-white strands, his large, round, deep brown eyes and his ramrod-straight back, spine held stretching, extended, so that he actually topped both the other elezen in height -- his body showed no sign of infirmity. Without bothering to even bend his knees, he seemed to unhook himself at the waist, reaching down to adjust Estinien's feet as he saw fit. Estinien, to his own surprise, allowed his body to be manipulated without flinching at the other man's touch. The ballet master just seemed to exude an invitation to trust.

Sliding Estinien's right foot to position it directly in front of his left, right heel touching left big toe, right little toe pressed tight to left heel, the master stood back, held his stick aloft in one hand and made a sweeping, dramatic gesture toward Estinien's feet. "Voila!" he exalted. "The perfect closed fifth!"

"Estinien!" Aymeric effused. "You're nothing short of a prodigy. That's a perfect fifth postion you're holding." Estinien looked at his feet in the mirror, looked down at his feet on the ground, then back up to the master.

"May I put my arms down now," he asked, directing the question at the older Elezen, strangely, rather than Aymeric. Estinien rarely asked for permission from anyone but his dark-haired knight, yet he couldn't recall ever warming to a stranger as quickly as he warmed to Master Pierrault. "I've been holding them like this for quite some time," he continued.

"Of course! Of course, Ser Estinien! To the barre with the both of you and let class begin!" he shouted, waving both men to the Ballet barre that ran down the length of the wall opposite the one lined with mirrors. The elderly elezen retreated then, for a moment, to the carpet bag he'd left by the door. Retrieving a miniature orchestrion from within its depths, he carried it over, and, surprisingly, chose a place at the barre himself, before bending to place the device at his feet.

"Master Pierrault," said Aymeric, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes, yes, my young friend, if I may be allowed to call you that," inquired the master. Aymeric gave an enthusiatic nod. "I realize 'tis unorthodox, but I think it may be easier for our dear Sugarplum if we positioned him betwixt us here at the barre so that he will always have someone to watch."

"Ah," said Aymeric, "I hadn't thought... but yes, that's perfect."

"Let us begin, then," said the older man.

"Come, love," Aymeric said, drawing his arm around the waist of a bewildered Estinien. He had never before heard his knight call him by that particular endearment in front of anyone other than, maybe, Yvonne.

Allowing himself to be wrangled toward the barre, Estinien took his place behind the ballet master. Aymeric, then, stood behind him, a position that would be reversed when Estinien turned to practice each given combination on the second side. Either way, he would have someone to watch as he progressed through his first ballet barre.

Watching the other men place their hands on the barre, Estinien clasped it tight with his own, causing the smooth wood to jolt and creak all along its length.

"Ah, Estinien, my love, no need to hold on quite so tightly," Aymeric murmured, quietly laughing but glad, in truth, that it hadn't been his lover's lance hand that had done the grasping; he surely would have pulled the whole damned thing from the wall. Coming up behind him, his knight placed Estinien's fingers lightly resting just on top, not truly holding the barre at all. "It's just to help with balance," Aymeric confided. Estinien shrugged. How was he to know?

"The _plié_ then," said Pierrault, reaching down to start the music.

_Plié, tendu, jeté, rond de jamb, fondue, frappes, adagio, grand battement_ , Estinien performed them all in succession, on each side, the ballet master adjusting his body gently to correct his alignment as he progressed through the movements. He was perfection. Even Pierrault admitted that he had never seen someone take to the dance with such ease and natural ability.

Helping the silver-haired man progress through _coupé_ , where the toe of his right foot pointed to touch his ankle, to _passé,_ where that same toe drew up the leg to touch the side of Estinien's knee, to a fully extended _developé_ , where, leaning into his supporting hip as he pulled his torso up and out of it, the dragoon managed to commit to an extension that had the heel of his right foot in line with his right ear -- he could touch ankle to ear tip -- the master was enthralled. Estinien was a truly magnificent danseur.

Aymeric was equally delighted with Estinien's prowess, but, of course, he was often most _thoroughly_ delighted by the sheer variety of activities at which Estinien demonstrated prowess. As he showed his dragoon how to do a barre stretch, hoisting his own leg up to rest on smooth wood, he caught Estinien whipping off his shirt and collapsing, his back to the floor. The dragoon was drenched with sweat and exhausted.

"Now onto floor exercises," Aymeric said, smiling down at him.

"There's more?" the dragoon moaned, panting.

Aymeric gave him a hand up and went to pour him some water from a nearby carafe. "Dry yourself," he said returning with both water and towel. "You'll catch a chill." Aymeric tried not to watch as his dragoon toweled the sweat from his bare chest, lest he embarrass himself in front of the master. Though, on second thought, he imagined somehow that Pierrault was a difficult man to shock and an even more difficult one to offend -- so much for that apoplexy; he and Estinien could have been caught buck naked and rutting on the studio floor and he imagined the older man would have simply clapped and shouted out "marvelous!"

"Here, Estinien," Aymeric called, "let me tie up your hair lest I pull it while I lift you." Estinien allowed it, standing in front of his lover, head bowed, as Aymeric pulled his thick, course hair into a loose loop on top of his head, catching up the end of his tail and binding it tight to the base with a bit of silken rope.

"First things first," enthused Pierrault from the front of the room, positioning himself with his back to the wall of mirrors. "Let us do a center before we progress 'cross the floor. Our Sugarplum must learn to _pirouette_ , I think," he said. Estinien, not bothering to reclaim his shirt, simply strode to the center of the floor, facing both mirror and master. Aymeric joined him.

"Would you mind demonstrating the _pirouette_ turn first, my dear Lord Speaker, and then, perhaps, the _fouetté_ turn. Ser Estinien will need to _fouetté_ as Sugarplum.

Now, every citizen of Ishgard, nigh every resident of Eorzea, knew that Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Speaker of Ishgard's House of Lords and Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, was an exceptionally fine dancer. He was an even more accomplished danseur. Elegant and stately, the ideal ballet prince, he took the very center of the room and demonstrated a perfect and perfectly controlled single _pirouette_ turn, before bending deep into a wide fourth position and pulling himself easily into a triple turn, his face glued to Estinien's, using his lover as his spot lest he succumb to dizziness.

"Marvelous, Ser Aymeric!" shouted the ballet master. "Watch, Ser Estinien. Watch how your cavalier keeps his gaze locked to yours as he turns, keeps his eyes on yours until the very last moment he can, before snapping his head around to meet your gaze again," he instructed the dragoon. "Now the _fouetté_ , please, my lord," directed Pierrault.

Aymeric bent again into a deep fourth, spun himself into a double pirouette, and whipping out his leg just as he came out of the last turn, propelled himself back into another triple turn. At the end of the triple, he whipped his leg again and again, performing two fouettés in a row, then used the last of those fouetté to pop himself up into another triple turn.

"He's a virtual spinning top," said Estinien, in awe. "How does he keep from getting dizzy?"

"You keep him from getting dizzy, my friend. Ser Aymeric uses _you_ as the spot to which he fixes his eyes as he turns," replied the master. "Keeping his gaze locked to yours allows him to spin without becoming disoriented." The old man chuckled. "If you don't mind my saying, my dear young friend, he must be marvelously much in love to use you thus." Estinien flushed sugarplum purple.

"Your turn, Estinien," said Aymeric as he spun himself out to sink slowly into his fourth. He held out his hand and Estinien walked forward to take it in his own, before drawing it up to his lips.

"That was amazing, Aymeric," said the silver-haired man as he allowed his lover to manipulate his body into his own deep fourth. Aymeric backed away, giving Estinien's long legs room, before issuing his instructions.

"Don't worry about the turning, love. The turning will take care of itself. Instead," the knight continued, "try to think about pulling onto your supporting leg with as much upward force as possible. 'Tis more 'up' than 'around,'" Aymeric explained.

Again, Estinien easily pulled himself into a triple turn, sank back down into a deeply bent fourth, popped back onto demi-pointe to turn a double and then whipped himself into three successive _fouetté_ turns before sinking back into his fourth.  
Aymeric just shook his head, beaming.

"Partner him, Lord Aymeric," Pierrault demanded with a quick tap of stick upon floor. "Partner him through the turns. I wish to see how you two move against one another."

Aymeric moved up behind Estinien, took his right hand and held it above his head as Estinien bent into fourth position in preparation for another _pirouette_.

"Try four this time, Ser Estinien. Four turns. Your knight will help you through them," directed the master.

Estinien did five, the fingers of Aymeric's left hand held lightly skimming his waist, helping him to balance.

"Now a lift," said the ballet master, pressing them. "Push off the ground into _passé_ , dear Estinien. Your beloved will lift you straight up, holding you at the waist, but you must help by jumping into the lift. As in most activities involving partners," Pierrault said, laughing loud, "much more is accomplished when those involved play an equally active part."

Estinien did as he was asked, pushing straight off the ground with his dragoon-trained legs... and carrying Aymeric up with him, his hands still gripped to his lover's waist for at least two fulm, before the knight realized he needed to let go, dropping to his feet on the ground.

"Estinien!" Aymeric called, fear shooting through him as he watched his dearest bash his head straight into the high, arched ceiling and immediately fall back toward the ground, his body loose, obviously unconscious. Stupidly, the knight rushed to position himself underneath, somehow thinking he could snatch him out of the air, could catch him up in his arms as he did on the Steps of Faith. The result of his harried reasoning was that Estinien fell smack down on top of him, knocking Aymeric flat to the ground and as much out of his senses as was his own silver-haired lover.


	2. The Cavalier Grand Pas de Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went a bit overboard here at the end -- pun very much and very painfully intended; I just couldn't seem to let go of the conceit. Sorry in advance about that. And, umm... have I ever mentioned how much I love The Tempest? I Freaking LOVE The Tempest!!! 
> 
> As little an authority as I should be considered in regard to what is or is not NSFW, I'm pretty certain this chapter qualifies as something that should not be read at work.
> 
> I should probably say that there may be some details in this chapter that seem pretty unmotivated. The motivation for said details is likely to be found in that exercise in trying to see exactly how many literary references I could shove into just over 20k words which is the first thing I posted here, called "A Sable, Silver'd." As it turns out, one can shove quite a few literary references into 20k words, and at least one reference to "Boruto." It's certainly not necessary to have read the thing; it's kind of longish and I talk about Shakespeare alot, like alot alot, but it's there if anyone is wondering.

Estinien!" Aymeric said, shooting up in his infirmary bed the moment his eyes fluttered to consciousness. Pain shot through his head and chest and, as he clasped his hands up to his forehead, closing his eyes against the stinging light, he realized that not only could he not quite catch his breath, but that the act of trying to breathe was quite painful.

"Aymeric!" the knight heard a wet sob catch in the familiar low voice of his lover. "You must not sit up," he heard as footsteps came up to his bedside and he felt Estinien's strong arms wrap around his back to ease him down onto the bed.

"'stinian," Aymeric mumbled, his tongue feeling suddenly swollen and tight in his mouth, garbling his speech. He felt the other man gently hold him up enough to slip pillows behind his back, propping him in a slightly raised position. Then, hearing the soft spill of water pouring, he held out his left hand, eyes still closed, waiting for a glass to be pressed into it. Instead, he felt it held to his lips, inviting him to drink.

"Drink, 'meric," said Estinien, angling the glass, tilting it further against his lover's lips as Aymeric drained it.

"That's enough, Ser Estinien," said the gently coaxing rasp of a voice Aymeric recognized as belonging to Captain Abel, head of the Knight Hospitallers. "Not too much yet, lest it be more than his stomach can bear."

Estinien gave a low grunt in answer and Aymeric could hear the clink of a glass being set down on wood. He caught his lover's scent, all musk and almond-spice, as the dragoon bent low over him to adjust his pillows, and he wanted desperately to pull the other man down over-top him, but Aymeric somehow could not make his right arm work.

"Kiss me, Estinien," he pleaded, raw throat roughening his usual silken tones.

The form hovering over him froze, unmoving for several moments until Aymeric heard the heavy sound of a door closing.

"Aymeric," said Estinien, "Abel was still here. "You must be more careful."

"Nay, my love, not with him," replied the knight, "If he had been distracted enough by the injuries I sustained during the assassination attempt to remain unaware then of my feelings for you -- when I nearly willed myself to death because I thought you lost -- the days I hovered by Master Leveilleur, waiting for your true return to us, surely communicated my sentiments most clearly. He will say noth..." Aymeric stopped short, wheezing all of a sudden, finding it increasingly painful to breathe.

"Fool!" admonished Estinien, forceful. "No more talking; I'll fetch back the healer." Aymeric could hear Estinien's heavy steps as he retreated. He decided, now that he was alone for a moment, to try opening his eyes once again. "Ah," he exhaled, fluttering his lashes open to a squint. The light remained somewhat painful to his eyes, streaming in to sting, but he could just barely tolerate it with them only fractionally slit, and he so longed to see Estinien's face he would willingly bear a modicum of discomfort.

But it was not Estinien who returned to the room. Instead Abel appeared. "Ah, eyes open then, Lord Commander. That's a good sign. How's the head?" asked the healer. "Tolerable," Aymeric answered, honestly. "Is Estinien.."

"He'll be back momentarily, I imagine," said Abel, his low voice fond and amused. "One can hardly keep him from your bedside. Sound familiar, my lord," he chuckled.

"How is it that he's uninjured," asked Aymeric, puzzled. "I saw him smash his head hard against the ceiling of the studio -- that ceiling is stone, Abel."

"I can honestly say, my lord, that I have yet to meet anyone more hard-headed than Ser Estinien," the healer answered, stifling his laughter, "and, otherwise, any more serious injuries to his body were prevented by his landing directly on top of _you_ , I'm afraid."

"I broke his fall then," asked Aymeric, his gut tightening as he realized how Estinien was likely to react to the fact. "What _is_ my condition, exactly, Ser Hospitaller?" he asked.

Abel shrugged. "Far less serious than it might have been if it hadn't been for that Ballet Master of yours," Abel said nodding. "He's Sharlyan, mind you, so I should have expected it, but he's both a skilled scholar and pact-bound to an imp that's violet-hued in colour. I've never seen anything quite like her," he paused again, thinking. "Your head was badly injured from where it impacted the floor of the studio -- thank goodness it's sprung-wood and not stone -- and a cracked rib had just nearly missed piercing your lung, but the Master and his companion had reduced those hurts to a nicely-sized goose-egg at the back of your skull and merely bruised ribs before I even arrived. The concussion remains, however," continued the healer, "though 'tis much more mild. You should be up and around within the week, my lord." Abel smiled before he quipped, "if you properly rest yourself, that is. No paperwork, no dancing, and, as much as I hate to guard against pain-reducing pleasures, no _dragoons_ for at least the space of a full week, Ser Aymeric."

"Ah," said the knight, his face reddening," I understand."

"Rest now, Aymeric," said the healer. "Quiet thyself and rest."

Outside now, perched on the roof of the Forgotten Knight, Estinien stared at the tips of his fingers and tried to remember how to breathe. They were growing again, the claws; he could feel them, see them -- and he felt the horns too, the little nubs protruding from either side of his skull. Only the exertion of his indefatigable will's best efforts were able to stop him from reaching up to touch them.

He had done it. He, Estinien curséd Wyrmblood had laid Aymeric low, put him in that infirmary bed. Stupid, savage Estinien Wyrmblood, he screamed internally, jumping down from the roof and scurrying inside the Congregation before he succumbed to the urge to flee, to put as much space as possible between his beloved and his own reckless inadequacies. If the dragoon had learned at least one thing since his return to Ishgard from his various eastern and imperial wanderings, it was that fleeing from his lord, close as they were now, would break Aymeric for good.

Abel caught him on the way back toward Aymeric's sickroom. The healer actually took his _own_ life into his hands, as opposed to the lives of the many patients he treated on a daily basis, and placed what looked to be the impossibly inadequate impediment of his small hyuran hand onto the middle of the elezen's broad chest. "Wait, Ser Estinien..." he said squinting his eyes and staring up at Estinien's head. "There's something...something strange with your aether...on either side of your head, on your hands, at the bottom of your spine," he said, pointing in turn, with his free hand, to each part he named. Estinien's jaw dropped and he very nearly asked the healer if he could, indeed, see them -- the claws, the horns, and, wait.... Estinien reached both hands behind him. Yes. There it was, the beginnings of a long, scaly tail. He hadn't felt one of those before. "Are you sure you're feeling completely well," asked the healer, "that you don't feel any lingering effects of your fall?"

"The _effects of my fall_ are lying broken on that bed in there," he shouted, pointing toward Aymeric's room "a bed from which you are currently trying to keep me, very much to your own risk." He drew himself up to his full height and tried to loom as menacingly as he could, but the healer just let out a low chuckle and gave Estinien a gentle pat on the chest as he removed his hand.

"A good point, Ser Dragoon. Lord Aymeric needs you close. But truly, he's only barely broken now, Estinien," he said, his voice kind, "already on the mend, thanks to the Sharlyan. He'll be on his feet and back at Borel manor by the end of the week."

Estinien nodded at the man, his vague attempt at an apology. He had already been apprised of Aymeric's prognosis -- by Abel himself only minutes after the dragoon himself had woken from unconsciousness and immediately leapt out of bed seeking his dark-haired knight -- but it was comforting to hear again that Aymeric was not so gravely injured. He moved past Abel to enter the room where his knight rested.

"You're back," Aymeric said immediately, slitting his eyes the small amount he could without inviting the sting. "I was afraid..."

"That is a problem then, indeed, my lord," Estinien interrupted, taking a deep breath and modulating his voice gentle and low, "because the last thing in the world I'd wish to do is ever again make you fearful. I will not leave you, Aymeric -- never again for long, and only for a short while if it is absolutely necessary to protect that which you love."

Aymeric closed his eyes against a different sting, but still could not completely stop the sobs that crept up from his chest. "Kiss me, Estinien," he pleaded again, and this time his lover acquiesced, bending down to press his lips gently to his lord's.

"I'm actually feeling better than I was prior to my injury, more fit, energized," Aymeric said, laughing. Yvonne heaped yet another blanket over his lap as he reclined on the settee in his library.

"Because you're well-rested for once, my love," replied the small hyuran woman, fussing over him, tucking in the blankets and reaching out to smooth his fringe off his forehead. "All you boys," she said, sighing, "I don't see how you avoid injuring yourselves on a nearly daily basis with all that _hair_ always hanging in your eyes. How can you avoid running into things? You and Estinien both, such handsome faces, and you insist on hiding them." She bent down to kiss Aymeric on his exposed brow and then startled as she straightened when Estinien, having padded up silently behind her, planted his own kiss to her cheek. "Estinien!" she protested without true rancor. She moved to swat him on his chest, but he easily dodged to the side and around the woman.

"I moved his things back into his room myself," the dragoon informed her. "Gerard needn't bother."

"I'll tell him," she replied. "Well, if there's nothing else, loves, I'd best get to making dinner. Master Pierrault will be back at the manor at seven, so I thought I would serve then." Yvonne was used to having to shift dinner times according to Aymeric's erratic schedule. She had long ago mastered the art of re-heating long-prepared meals at a moment's notice. "I'll have Gerard bring in the tea."

"No need, Yvonne," said Estinien. "I was just heading into the kitchen to fetch the tray myself." The dragoon left the room, and, after another affectionate swipe of his hair back from Aymeric's forehead, Yvonne followed.

"Estinien, wait," said Yvonne, finding him balancing the tea tray over one arm as he shoved one of Yvonne's matchless scones down his gullet with his free hand. "How are you feeling, love," she asked. "You seem..." she stopped for a moment, searching his face, her eyes somehow drawn inexorably upward to a tightness, a knot of something fearful pulsing on either side of his head. "You seem...tired," she sighed, unable to express her impressions in words. "He's fine, you know, love. He's actually better than fine. Lord Aymeric was not lying; all the rest has done him a world of good."

"I jush can, Yvonne," Estinien muttered unintelligibly, his mouth still stuffed with food. He paused and swallowed. "I just can't..." he began again before his throat constricted with self-recrimination. "I just cannot forgive myself, Yvonne." He looked down at the floor. "I hurt Aymeric. I hurt him with my body and my carelessness. That fact cannot be sidestepped with all the well-meaning reassurances I know you have tucked just underneath that wagging tongue of yours," he said, looking down at her with just a touch of a grin curving up the left corner of his mouth. "Love you though," he continued, pressing another quick peck to her cheek as he pushed past her to the door.

"Take care, little love," Yvonne admonished, her eyes bright, as she reached up to brush her hand against his stubbled cheek. "And _shave_ , my dear Ser, if you don't wish to leave brush-burns all over my young lord's face with those bristles. Sweet Halone, they're like _wires_ , Estinien." He grinned at her in earnest and pushed open the door with his back.

Later, after dinner, after that strange violet _creature_ had been summoned by Pierrault and asked to examine Aymeric's aether, after both it and the Sharlyan had pronounced the knight completely recovered, and after the ballet master had suggested that Estinien might wish to _partner Aymeric_ through some lifts so that he might learn how to jump into a hold by feeling how Aymeric accomplished the act, he and his lover sat in the sad, diminished gardens of Borel manor, so reduced from the time when the young lord's mother had nurtured her roses, her hydrangea, her lush peonies, her own little skirt-clinging, toddling Blue, in the long-ago mild Summers of pre-Calamity Ishgard.

"It turns to Winter-cold early, Estinien. Does it not," Aymeric asked.

"Mmhmm," answered the dragoon, tired now that the tension of the week had spilled from his chest, leaked out of his body, leaving his limbs limp and sprawled over the stone steps where he sat, elbows resting on the step behind him and Aymeric on the step below, his back to the dragoon and positioned between Estinien's spread thighs. The silver-haired man dropped his head on the step behind it and closed his eyes, concentrating on the odd feeling of the new appendage that extended from the bottom of his spine, how it rested propped on the stone step curled behind his ass. It was a strange sensation. He wondered how he'd keep it from getting in the way in bed.

"Estinien?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm restless," Aymeric said, sighing. "Too much recovery, not enough movement. Are you too exhausted to partner me?"

Estinien slit a single eye and looked at Aymeric, who had twisted on his step to face the dragoon. He shrugged his shoulders. Certainly he'd fought both dravanians and imperials in a more exhausted state. If it was what Aymeric wanted, perhaps he could muster the energy. "I suppose, if Pierrault and his imp have cleared you for such activities, I could accommodate your wishes."Aymeric just smiled, rose to his feet on his step and turned to offer Estinien his hand.

Peeling himself from the steps leading from the manor down into the gardens proper, Estinien took Aymeric's hand and allowed himself to be led down the stairs. As they walked into the gardens, where even Gerard's heartiest of Spring-planted annuals had long wilted into grey stalks upon which only a few dried leaves clung, and his perrenials were rapidly changing into their dustier, muted Winter hues (the poor man, having only Aymeric to steward, tried to keep up the gardens), Aymeric suddenly turned and wrapped himself inside the circle of Estinien's arms, reaching up to kiss him. It was their first real kiss since he'd been hurt.

"Oh, Aymeric," sighed the slightly taller man, pulling his knight closer against his body, "why must you make yourself so vulnerable to me, so open? 'Tis surely a mistake to betray weakness to the wyrm. I am yet a monster, my love."

"'Tis happening again then?" his lord inquired. "I had a feeling it might."

"Aye," replied Estinien, "and even worse now. Now _I_ have a tail, and I'm not even a semi-colon."

"A tail? That's new."

Estinien reached for Aymeric's hand then, and placed it at the very bottom of his spine, resting on the arching curve of his ass. "Can you..." Estinien started, a small hope held in his eyes as they sought Aymeric's. "Nay," he self-admonished. "Of course you cannot. You are not so monstrous as to be able to recognize the monster in me."

Aymeric answered by placing one large hand on the space whereupon the tail supposedly resided and using it to push Estinien's hips tight against his. He kissed his silver-haired love again. "I can feel this," he said, sliding his other hand down between them to stroke his lover's cock through his trousers. When he could feel Estinien begin to harden, he turned away from him abruptly and used his own firm ass in place of his hand, continuing to rub Estinien fully erect.

"Aymeric," Estinien let out a soft moan, his voice catching in his throat.

"Partner me, Estinien," he murmured, taking the dragoon's hands and placing them firmly on either side of his slim waist.

"Are you certain 'tis safe?" asked his lover. "Are not your ribs still too injured for this?"

"I'm completely healed, love. You heard Master Pierrault," answered the knight. Estinien did not answer immediately, too busy brushing the curls from Aymeric's nape and then reaching down to suck a section of the uncovered flesh between front teeth, making his mark upon Aymeric's skin as surely as if he'd done so with ink and quill.

"Sweet Fury, Estinien," Aymeric exhaled out softly, his whole body shivering from the exquisite sweetness of the pain. "Lift me," he said, placing his hands over Estinien's on his own waist. "Squeeze my ribs, pressing me skywards, and I will jump straight up. Then lift me as high as you can," he finished.

"Alright," Estinien answered.

"Ready?" asked his lord. The dragoon nodded into the back of his head, and Aymeric bent his knees into a deep _demi-plié_ and sprung from the ground. At the apex of his leap, he felt the pressure of his own weight settle into Estinien's hands where they pushed into the bottom of his rib cage. "Do you feel that Estinien? How the weight doesn't hit you until my upward motion stops and gravity takes hold?"

"I do, actually," the dragoon answered, no hint of strain in his voice; he bore Aymeric's weight effortlessly.

"Now rotate a half-turn to your left and set me down so that my feet touch the ground as lightly as would a dragoon's upon landing," instructed the knight. Estinien did as he was asked. "That was perfection, Estinien," Aymeric said, turning around to catch his arms around his lover's neck. "Now a _pas de chat_ , I think," continued the dark-haired knight. "I'm jumping straight up again, but this time the leap is going to carry me several steps to my side. You must move me to where I would naturally land if I were performing the jump un-partnered." Again, Estinien performed the movement flawlessly, gently lifting Aymeric several steps to the side and setting him back down.

"How are the ribs, 'meric?" Estinien asked.

"Fine, he answered. It feels wonderful, actually, to be handled thusly by you. I'm "on air" in more ways than one -- perhaps this is a small hint of what 'tis like to be a dragoon," Aymeric answered, laughing. "Now, I think we'll try a _grand jeté_. This isn't a high lift; I shan't be much higher than your heart..."

"Only because you are so firmly entrenched within it, Aymeric," Estinien interrupted, trying to retain a straight-face for but a moment, before breaking into a laugh at his own saccharine sentimentality.

Aymeric did not join him in laughter, however. He just turned to kiss him again, keeping his gaze locked with his lover's, eyes open, through the prolonged joining of tongues and lips. The knight seemed to be trying to communicate some intent with those extraordinary eyes of his -- some longing laced with an edge of desperation.

Snapping those same eyes abruptly shut, Aymeric took a step backwards away from Estinien and turned from him, crossing his arms against his chest. "What is it," Estinien asked, concern in his voice.

"'Tis nothing to concern you, love," the knight answered. He cleared his throat, before continuing. "Now, where was I... ah, the _grand jeté_ ," he said, bowing his head slightly in rumination. "For this, I'll simply press into a forward leap and you must lift and then lower me as you move me forward to where I would land if I lept on my own. My leap does carry me a bit -- though not as long as yours, I still possess elezen legs -- so you'll be walking me several steps forward. Ready, love?" Aymeric asked again, as he positioned himself back within the strong grip of Estinien's hands. "Ah wonderful!" he exclaimed as his lover lifted him lightly through the leap. "Now let's try it several times in a row."

Estinien lifted the knight into his fully-extended forward split leap three times in a row, admiring Aymeric's lightness as he but touched his feet to the ground for the barest of beats before pushing into his subsequent jump.

"Finally, let us do it all in succession -- the straight push upwards into a half turn, the _pas de chat_ , and then the three _grand jetés_ in row," Aymeric said, a boyish, lopsided smile spread across his face. ""Tis assuredly a right proper _pas de deux._ "

Music played as they started to move together, from whence they knew not, nor was it entirely certain whether they even heard it, so consumed were the lovers in both each other and the dance. Still, if they had glanced to a far corner of the garden, tucked behind the remnants of a rose were the movement of wings and the slightest of violet glows, growing in luminosity as Estinien lifted Aymeric through the combination with ease, moving him about the garden. The knight took the positions in the air with unfettered grace and a bold strength that lent a newness to the _pas de deux_ form itself, where the partner held aloft was always a strong, of course, but invariably delicate woman. A man being lifted lent the dance a distinctly different and powerful connotation.

When he finally set his lord down lightly on his feet, Estinien was surprised by how quickly Aymeric turned to face him. "Oh, Gods, Estinien," said the knight, rubbing his nose back and forth against his lover's, his lips catching across Estinien's as he made the movement of shaking his head. Drawing back, he shook his head in earnest. "I can't...I cannot endure this any longer. Surely I have waited long enough, my love," Aymeric swallowed, his face flushing hot and red and his breath coming fast. "I need you, Estinien. I need to be taken, to feel you inside -- to be filled instead of filling, as you promised me so long ago. Please, Estinien."

"Aymeric..." Estinien said, his voice dropping to a bewildered whisper. "Are you... are you certain?" In answer, Aymeric hung his arms around the back of his dragoon's neck and jumped to wrap his long legs around Estinien's waist. The silver-haired man reached down to cup his ass in both his hands, supporting his dark-haired love against his body.

"Take me to our bed. Now. Right now, my dearest. Lay me down in the sheets and make love to me, Estinien. Surely you've found some way to love me by now," Aymeric panted against his ear.

"I always already knew how to love thee, Aymeric. I was simply too frightened to try," he answered, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Aymeric's smooth one. "'Tis been a bit," he said after the pause of a couple moments, his voice a bit uncertain, vulnerable.

"It had damned well better have been more than just a bit," growled the knight in mock anger as he tugged with his teeth, puppy-like, at the tip of his lover's ear. "I do not recall agreeing to a partnership that allowed for anything but absolute exclusivity."

"As if I could ever again be satisfied by another after having _you_ inside me, my lord," Estinien teased lightly. "Have no fear, Aymeric; after we met, there never was anyone in my thoughts but you, even as I bedded the scions of half the noble houses in Ishgard."

"No more talking, Estinien. Take me upstairs. Now," Aymeric demanded in his best Lord Commander voice. Not daring to counter him, though it amused Estinien for his knight to chide _him_ for being garrulous, the dragoon carried his lover up the stone stairs and back inside the manor.

Estinien kept his own room inside Borel Manor, still somewhat jealous of having his own space, of keeping something for himself. But he slept with Aymeric, his own body positioned on the side of the bed closest to the door, between his love and any potential intruder. Aymeric himself, strangely considering he had slept for as long as he could remember in a bed that could accommodate at least three fully-grown elezen, took up as little space as possible in his own bed. Even when sleeping alone on the nights Estinien's sense of duty carried him still into danger, the Lord Viscount de Borel slept curled on his side, his face to the window, huddled on the very edge of the mattress. Estinien was somewhat surprised, after waking up numerous times to find himself leaning up against his lover's back, completely sprawled onto Aymeric's side of the bed -- his head even taking up half his lord's pillow -- that Aymeric didn't simply fall out onto the floor. But his lord was like a cat in sleep, it seemed, steadfastly clinging to the edge.

In Aymeric's room, now, standing toe to toe and shivering at each other from both the encroaching cold of Autumn and anticipation, they paused, silently still.

"Undress me," commanded his lord's voice, and Estinien, thrall to its velvet tones, obeyed. First, the tunic, pulled from over his head, leaving waggishly tousled curls in its wake, and then the belt, undone, slipped from around that elegantly-narrowed waist so that Aymeric's trousers drooped low on his hips before, finally, Estinien slid those trousers, coupled with his lover's shorts, down to his ankles. He took the knight's right hand in his own to help him step gracefully out of them and rose from his knees to stand on his feet again.

"Now you," said Aymeric, and Estinien's hands were at the ties on his own pants, almost mechanically, before his mind had fully processed his lord's command. He pushed them down from his own hips, with his own shorts, and then busied his long, deft fingers with the hooks that stretched down the center of his shirt.

Shrugging out of his linen, he dropped back to his knees unbidden and took Aymeric's erection fully in his mouth, steadying himself by gripping his lord's hips and gazing up into his lover's downward-cast eyes as he pleasured him with his softly mouthing lips and dragging tongue. Estinien broke their shared gaze for a moment, much as he hated to, but his eyelids couldn't help but drop closed in the face of the truly decadent indulgence of feeling Aymeric's cock so fully filling his mouth. He loved the taste of him, the salty, slightly acrid taste of semen and sweat combined with the almond-scented testosterone drifting up from just below.

"Estinien," Aymeric said, backing gently out of his lover's mouth and pulling the dragoon to his feet with a tug to his forearm. "Lift me, Estinien. Partner me. Like this. Naked together."

Estinien, facing his lover this time, placed his hands at the bottom of Aymeric's ribcage and braced as he felt his lord jump into the lift. He turned him a half-rotation, as he had been taught in the gardens, before setting Aymeric gently on his feet again.

"Again," said Aymeric, and Estinien complied, lifting and spinning his lover, their eyes locked, in the dim candlelight of the bedroom.

"Once more," his knight commanded the dragoon, "but this time, Estinien, fold me into your arms on the descent. Carry me as you would your bride into the bed." The silver-haired man felt his throat constrict to muffle a rising sob, but he did as his lord commanded, lifting, turning, moving his arm under Aymeric's knees as the knight wrapped his own arms 'round the dragoon's neck, careful to avoid catching his hair in the embrace as Estinien laid him gently down on their bed.

Estinien saw purple spots creep into his plane of vision, then, as he stood staring down at Aymeric reclining before him, one arm sprawled languidly across his brow, the other resting across his belly so his long fingers could absently paw at his own ruddied erection. Taking a stuttering breath, filling his forgotten lungs again with oxygen, the dragoon realized he was terrified.

"Come," said Aymeric, lifting his hand to invite his silver-haired love into bed, and Estinien had not the slightest thought of making his sly and familiar pun on the word, he was so discomfited. Instead, he took both a deep breath and Aymeric's hand and settled himself tucked on the mattress against his lord's side, pulling the other man to face him.

"I love you, Aymeric. So much," he said, reaching to lift the dark-haired man's hand to his own lips, kissing the first knuckle of his ring finger, the second knuckle, and then flipping it to kiss the flat of his knight's palm. Aymeric shivered.

Suddenly, from no space in himself that he had heretofore recognized, Estinien found himself smiling through his fear. "Many things have changed since last we found ourselves here, in this moment," he started, "but my love has altered only in its sheer depth and expansiveness," he continued, growing courageous, at first, and then nigh combustible with a surge of wild emotion. "Marry me, Aymeric," he said, swallowing. "Here in this bed, in this moment. Let me give to you as you have given to me, so many times, and in doing so let us complete the circle of our most sacred union," said the dragoon, his voice surprisingly free of even a hint of tremor. "Sweet Halone be praised, let us be wed," he continued, his voice dropping just above a whisper. "Be forever mine, Aymeric."

"I will, Estinien." Aymeric answered. "I will wed thee. Here. In this moment, this bed," he continued, his dazzling eyes shining, but not with the expected tears. "What does it matter if not a single soul recognizes our union, at least for now, as long as we feel it ourselves," he effused.

" _My_ Fury knows us, Aymeric. She sees us, Sweet Goddess!" Estinien exhorted. "And someday, with you at its helm, so will Ishgard." He kissed Aymeric then, who took the opportunity to draw the dragoon over him, spreading his own impressive thighs and settling Estinien's hips between them. With his usual sleight of hand, Aymeric had somehow availed himself of the same pendant vial he had worn in their shared Ala Mhigan flower bed. It had been both refilled and emptied many times in the nights since then. Pressing the vial to his lips, the dark-haired lord kissed it once before hanging the pendant around his lover's neck.

Moments later, for the very first time, Estinien sank deep into Blue -- drowned himself in him, happily so, suffering his own sea change in Aymeric's depths: full fathom five thy lover lies, those are storms that are his eyes, tempest-tossed into something rich and strange, indeed.

"Aymeric," called the dragoon, his breath squeezed from him, his conscious will depleted in the inexorable need to keep driving himself into his sable-haired lover. Aymeric answered with his hips, raising them in rhythm with his Silver's relentless downward thrusts.

"Sweet Fury, Estinien! Please," called out the Lord Commander, uncertain himself for what he was pleading other than for his Silver to keep going, keep moving, keep coaxing his prostate to pleasure with each subsequent stroke of the dragoon's rigid length inside him. He had never before experienced such an exquisite combination of sensation and sensibility, his body's building to release combined with his heart's rapture at being so thoroughly taken and tossed, so completely possessed by Estinien.

Pulling his lover down to his lips, and thus causing Estinien to press the knight's own knees to his shoulders -- Aymeric was no slackard in terms of range of motion himself -- the knight craned his neck so he could gently mouth his dragoon's stubbled chin.

"Is...is it all that you wanted, Blue," Estinien managed to gasp out without even the slightest slackening of his hips.

"More than that, Estinien. 'Tis Everything," he responded, dropping his head back to the pillows and momentarily shuttering his eyes. Estinien reached his hand between them then and caressed the warm and twitching length he found therein, urging sweet, soft moanings from his lover's lips -- the velvet of Aymeric's voice combined with the silken skin of his cock inciting Estinien to his own release.

"Aymeric, I..."

"Inside. Inside, please, Estinien," his lord interrupted, "I wish for you to flood me with your heat."

"Oh, Aymeric," the dragoon sighed out in response, his voice breathy and low. "I love you so much, so very, very much," he continued softly, almost chanting the words in time with his reveling hips, before with one gasping, voiceless cry he poured himself into his Blue.

Groggy now, and clumsy with it, Estinien still refused to slacken, driving his hips, his softening, prickling length into his lover and continuing to caress his silken cock until Aymeric finally submitted to the force of his combined attentions, leaking seed onto his belly as he moaned his Silver's name.

Estinien collapsed then, for a moment, on top of Aymeric, crushing him into the mattress with his weight. Then, mumbling, "I don't wish to suffocate you," he rolled off to his side and settled himself against his lord, one arm slung across his chest to pull Aymeric tight against him. The knight turned to look at him and Estinien actually smiled with both corners of his mouth, prompting one of his lord's breath-siphoning smiles in return.

Estinien was enjoying the sensation of staring deep into Aymeric's eyes when he noticed them widen in startled surprise. His lord's hand reached up to touch his head. Then, eyes stretching even wider, the dark-haired man took the hand his dragoon had rested across his naked chest and raised it to his face, clasping each finger in turn to examine it. Dropping it peremptorily, Aymeric scrambled to a seated position, leaning over Estinien's body to examine his ass. His hand stroked down something slick with scales and the dragoon could feel the soft pressure smoothing down the length of the new appendage. It was then that he realized what was happening.

"Oh, Estinien," Aymeric began, "I have been very cruel. Very cruel and very stupid," he continued, "please forgive me, my love."

"You can see them, then," Estinien asked, voice breaking, hardly able to contain his relief. "The claws, horns, even the tail?"

"Indeed I can," Aymeric replied, smoothing his hand again down Estinien's tail, "and they are _most_ lovely."


	3. Drosselmeyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chopine is a type of platform-soled shoe popular at various times during the early modern period in our world, and, apparently, in Sharlyan since FFXIV started. Again, this is a reference to my very favorite play in the world, "Hamlet," this time from Act 2, Scene 2. I just can't help myself, apparently, and, well, Sharlyans really do seem to like their chopine.
> 
> I'm very much borrowing the idea of Aymeric being able to use Clemency from Nightmist's wonderful "Clemency, Clandestine," and I really wanted to acknowledge the fact.
> 
> This chapter has some NSFW in the middle, not particularly explicit I don't think, but, again, I am not a good judge.

A blizzard, yes, but none like he'd ever seen, roaring winds sweeping drifts of white across both his vision and his path. And he was a terrible chocobosman to boot, had not a seat to speak of, and thus no business traipsing out into the Coerthan Central Highlands to try and beat out a freak early-autumn snowstorm to Ishgard. But he could stay not one moment longer in that place, that place where she....

He had to flee, that was inarguable, so when Alisaie had suggested he contribute more fully to the Starlight Suite than by simply manufacturing the Clockwork Nutcracker gifted to Clara in the first scene of the ballet, he had listened half-heartedly. She herself was looking forward to taking on the role of the Mouse Queene, dancing opposite her brother as Clara's Nutcracker Prince, and they were both preparing to depart for Ishgard within the week, ready to finally meet Master Pierrault.

"He's Sharlyan, you know, Urianger," Alisaie had told him. "Father knows of him, well, everyone does, really. He's quite famous. But Mother has actually met him," she continued. "She says he's a very pleasant man, if a little eccentric."

"Indeed, Mistress Alisaie, his name is not unknown to me, but knowing naught much, I seek even less to know more, " he had replied, not completely paying attention, to his discredit, he knew. Alisaie truly did care for him, perhaps more than anyone yet living, and likely knew precisely what it was that haunted his thoughts, _who_ it was who haunted his thoughts.

"Since you are, in fact, the magician behind the clockworks being created for the ballet, why not fully commit to your role and actually play it on stage. I hear the master is still in need of a Drosselmeyer," Alisaie pointedly nudged.

"Shall I be made to dance for thee, milady? A stringed puppet, mayhap, hopping toe to toe in tow of thy brother and thyself on thy admittance into Ishgard," he had asked, a smile almost creeping across his features at the absurdity of himself taking the stage. "Regrettably, I have no wish to see the former See. Ishgard is no place for me."

"Urianger, stop it!" Alisaie cajoled. "Stop playing. I mean it -- come with me and Alphinaud to Ishgard. It will get you away from here at least, away from...," she stopped.

"I shall consider it, milady," he had said finally, trying to smooth over the awkwardness of her silence; they both knew whose name that silence contained, and how little he could bear even the mention of it, of _her_.

In the end it had been Alphinaud who had convinced him, of course. Alphinaud who could negotiate his way even through Urianger's spymaster will, the archon's true intent always hidden, if not behind cloth and glass anymore, at least behind layers upon layers of language. In this case, Urianger's reasons for leaving were obvious, and, knowing them, the younger elezen had been able to outmaneuver him.

The older man had even found himself becoming impatient for the day of their departure, growing more restless and morose the longer he was made to wait.

"Well, that's it then," Thancred said, trudging into the Rising Stones, his once-familiar swaggering gait now replaced with a steadier but more somber stride. "You'll have to postpone your trip to Ishgard, I'm afraid, Urianger," he continued. "There's to be one hell of a storm coming through this very evening. The skywatchers say it will continue through the night and into the morrow." He sat down heavily in the chair next to where Urianger was reading, slowly sipping his tea.

Lounging against the back of his chair, his arms propped behind his head and his heavy boots clomped up on the table near enough to his friend's tea that the elezen gave his friend a very pointed look, Thancred continued, "I suppose if you three had your chocobos already saddled and loaded, you might outrun the storm, but it would be a dangerous proposition, even then, and I don't recall any of you being much of a chocobosman. Of course the twins could travel by aetheryte..."

"I shall take thy advisement under consideration, my friend," the elezen interjected, betraying just a touch of irritation -- a rare slip indeed for him. Rising abruptly from the table, he glided off towards his temporary quarters. It was only later that Thancred realized, in hindsight, that he should have suspected his elezen friend's intentions even then, as the tall scholar had abandoned not just his tea, but his beloved book of Sharlyan verse when he had departed. Urianger, being unable to endure even one more minute between the stone walls that had seen his love fade to naught, had bolted straight through to his rooms, claimed his already packed belongings and headed out the back entrance to see about hiring a chocobo.

The chocobo he had managed to acquire, while well-trained, was young, inexperienced. The porter had told him so, only barely cajoled by Urianger's near teary-eyed pleadings into allowing the elezen to hire her. She had been the only bird left in the stables, regardless, many other travelers having already set out toward their destinations ahead of the storm.

Unfortunately for Urianger, his bird's inexperience showed itself truly once the winds picked up, her step stuttering, pausing even, as she craned her head this way and that as though trying to re-claim a lost scent. He knew he might be in trouble then, and urged her onward, regardless of direction, hoping they would at least run into, if not the Gates of Judgment or Camp Dragonhead, at least some form of habitation, some shelter.

It was not to be. A gale of such force that it seemed nigh primal-generated, suddenly slammed sideways into the pair, knocking Urianger clean from the saddle. While his bird kept to her feet through it, she did not keep to his side, bolting Gods knew where in her fright. He could only hope the poor creature made it to safety.

And that was how he found himself flat on his back somewhere in the Coerthan Central Highlands, winds roiling the sea of snow around him so that he was quickly becoming drowned in white. Freezing to death actually wouldn't be such a bad way to go, he thought, staring into a sky he could not see for all the blowing precipitation -- perhaps anti-climactic considering his history.

But it was certainly better than fading into naught: even if her sacrifice was the foundation upon which they had bested numerous Ascian threats, there had been nothing left of her -- nothing, _nothing_ , not even a body to properly bury, to mourn, a body whose bones you could feel deep in the earth underneath as you laid face-down on top of her grave, trying desperately to make of yourself and your beloved a double burial, trying to drown yourself in freshly-turned earth. Urianger had woken from just such dreamings many times since Moenbryda's death, and every time, _every cursed time_ , all he wanted to do was sink back into sleep, into dreams, the earth, her bones underneath, her love.

Dying here, blanketed in snow, was no great sorrow to him. His heart had cracked in 'twain long ago and he still, in all this time of his plodding, cumulative mourning, had never filled the chasm left within his chest. As many tears as he had cried, they had simply slipped out the bottom of the sundered organ, its pieces never again to be rejoined. So if, while lying here, his incomparable consciousness slowly fading into the lifestream, he could finally find a way to dream himself back into her arms, whether they be the bony arms of the grave or the more numinal ones of her dispersed, swirling aether, he would be not simply contented but overjoyed.

\----------------------------

Estinien sat on the floor of the studio, sat with his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his shins. Shirtless and sweating, the somewhat severe-looking elezen was still out of breath from his rehearsal session with the Ballet Master. He had been running through his Sugarplum variation with the master, the circle of quickly executed _piqué_ turns, called the _piqué manège_ , having thoroughly exhausted even a former Azure Dragoon.

His Cavalier was not much better off, lying back, propped up on his elbows, his bent legs spread to hug Estinien between them in an exhausted sprawl far more common to his silver-haired lover than it was the usually poised and elegant Lord Commander.

So, they sat there, the pair of them, too fatigued yet to even reach for towels or water, and watched as Master Pierrault conducted a beginner's class for Ser Handeloup's young daughter and little Maelie from what was no longer the Brume and several other young people. Truly Estinien had meant to scoot further away from his knight when the children had started to file in, but Aymeric had reached out a strong arm to stop him. The dragoon had twisted to look behind him then, a questioning expression on his face. Aymeric had smiled, a small, private smile this time, one meant to avoid attracting attention.

"Estinien de Borel," he had muttered just under his breath, and the dragoon had known immediately what he meant. Wed though their hearts might be, legal marriage was still beyond them. For that to change, Ishgard needed to get used to the concept of two men in love, or two women in love, for that matter. What better way to initiate the process than by having the young republic's children grow accustomed to the idea?

"Estinien!" the dragoon heard a familiar voice call from just beyond the studio door, accompanied by the clattering clamour of metal-soled shoes running on stone.

"Alphinaud!" His fatigue instantly dismissed, Estinien sprang to his feet and reached out to clasp the young scion in his arms as soon as the boy came within both his sight and his grasp. "Alphinaud!" cried the silver-haired man again, crushing the young elezen to his chest and spinning him around in a full circle before pressing a huge, wet kiss to his brow and setting him back on his feet, still clasping his slim shoulders with both hands as he looked at the boy. "You're nearer to heaven since last we met, my dear friend, by at least the altitude of a chopine," effused the dragoon, beaming, his smile so wide it bent even the corners of his eyes up with it. "Though," he qualified, "'tis perhaps because you're wearing them, chopines that is."

"Must you, Estinien?" Alphinaud sighed, slightly rankled by the usual teasing he endured in regard to his lack of true elezen height.

"It was in jest, truly, boy," said the dragoon, still smiling widely and keeping poor Alphinaud pinned between the crush of his hands. "You cannot know what _joy_ it brings me to see you returned to us, hale and whole."

"'Tis good to see you too, my friend," said the young elezen, smiling for a moment before his frown of consternation returned. "But I'm afraid the circumstances of this, our reunion, are under the most unfortunate of circumstances," he continued. Estinien's brow furrowed. "I come to beg most urgent aid of thee," Alphinaud pleaded. "Our colleague scion and dear friend, Urianger Augerelt, departed for Ishgard earlier today on chocoboback, trying to beat out the storm."

Ah, right, the storm, Estinien thought to himself. He hadn't thought much of the howling winds buffeting the studio windows as he and Aymeric rehearsed. But he was Ishgardian and used to snowstorms -- knew enough, at least, to condemn an attempt at outrunning a blizzard as folly. "He is lost in it then, do you think," the dragoon asked.

"He should have arrived here bells ago, but there's no sign of him," the young Levailleur continued. "Well, that is to say, that the only possible sign of him is a very young and very spooked Chocobo that stumbled past the Steps of Faith but one bell past, denuded of both panniers and saddle. We think this may be the very bird he hired in Mor Dhona. Alisaie is in the stables now rubbing down the poor creature -- mostly to keep her mind off her worries, I think; she has always been particularly close to Urianger."

"Alright," answered the dragoon, decidedly. "I'll see to it, Alphinaud. Return to Fortemps Manor and I will send thee word as soon as I am able..."

"But, Estinien, I had thought to accompany thee," the younger elezen interjected.

"Out of the question," Estinien said firmly. "You are an accomplished warrior, Alphinaud Levailleur. Recent rumours have you going as far as saving whole worlds separate from our own, and I _believe_ them," he continued, smiling fondly at the boy. "But you are no Ishgardian, not used to abiding this particular kind of storm. Let me venture out to find your friend."

"Not alone," said Aymeric's voice behind him.

"Lord Commander," Alphinaud said, turning to Aymeric and bowing a bit too formally for the dark-haired knight's taste. Stepping forward, the knight hugged the boy in his own far gentler embrace.

"'Tis, as Estinien said, _very_ good to see thee again, Alphinaud. As I am certain your formidable receptionist informed you, I was planning a visit to Mor Dhona at the first slight abeyance of my duties here in Ishgard," Aymeric said before releasing the younger elezen and turning to Estinien. "While I agree that young Master Leveilleur should remain here in Ishgard, I will not allow you out into this night on your own. The sky is already growing dark, Estinien, for Fury's sake!"

"Aymeric..." Estinien began, readying his protestations.

"No!" the knight said firmly. "I'll have none of it, Estinien. Not this time; this is not Nidhogg's Aery. I am far the superior chocobosman and more experienced in organizing search and rescue missions to boot," he continued, placing his hand firmly on his lover's forearm. "We'll take the Draught Grey from the Temple Knights' stables. 'Tis built to carry two fully-grown Roe, and thus should have no trouble with three elezen. On one bird," he continued, "the storm will be unable to separate us, and it is in remaining together that we have our best chance at success."

Estinien took a deep breath and acquiesced. There was no arguing that Aymeric was a far more accomplished Gallestrienne: as a noble, he'd been placed in the saddle nearly as soon as he could walk. And riding together on one bird to avoid being separated in case of sudden white-outs was, indeed, a very sound proposition. "Alright. To the manor first, and then the highlands," he said to Aymeric. "Do not worry," he continued, turning to place a reassuring hand on the younger elezen's shoulder, " we will find your friend, Alphinaud."

Once out in the midst of the storm, however, even Estinien's nigh endless confidence in his own tracking skills flagged. "There's nothing, Aymeric!" he shouted to make himself heard over the winds. "The drifts have shifted themselves over any possible sign of the man!" He returned to the massive, dull-white bird and swung himself back into his seat behind the knight.

"The bird senses something, I think," answered Aymeric, turning in the saddle to face Estinien. He leaned to place a soft kiss on his lover's lips. "Fret not, my love. We will not disappoint Alphinaud. The bird smells something we cannot; I'm certain of it," he continued. "I'll give it a bit of rein and see what happens." Diminishing the strong grip of his thighs on the massive bird's body, Aymeric loosened his reins and let the chocobo choose the direction in which their search would continue.

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Urianger could no longer feel his but-newly-returned body -- was barely even aware that the thoughts pouring into his clinging consciousness were even his. Lightness overcame him, the sensation of rising, and he was standing again, standing in the still-spinning white-out blizzard that continued to howl around his ears. He could still hear; though he could no longer see nor feel nor smell, not even the nearby pile of chocobo-shite scared out of his bird when she had bolted -- he had been able to smell _that_ until quite recently -- he could still hear. Was that a voice calling. He was certain he had heard one. A voice? Her voice? The body that stood above the one he could no longer feel turned slowly around...into a memory.

"That's shite, Urianger, and you know it," Moenbryda interrupted, suddenly angry."Your father makes you cover yourself because one glance at your eyes would betray the identity of your mother's lover. And he can't have that now, can he?" she continued, blood rising. "He can't have the shame, Urianger. But that shame belongs to him, not you, and I'm tired of you using it as an excuse to avoid loving me." The man before her looked thoughtful, well as much as she could tell with most of his face hidden behind a hood and heavy glass goggles. Finally, he spoke.

"Thou art so certain no harm will come to thee from this, our... _joining_ ," he had whispered in his soft, low voice, trembling at the last word on that night that would finally give him cause to tremble. The pattern of his speech, with its non-standardized verb endings and variation of the second-person address, was odd, anachronistic -- even in the Geniocracy that was Sharlyan, where many a scholar spent his or her life deep within the stacks of their grand libraries, Sharlyan's answer to Ishgard's Halonic cathedrals. The lyricism of his speech, however, had been fostered by his deep immersion in the poetry which had helped him overcome a debilitating childhood anxiety -- one that caused even his own father to regard him as permanently mute. Breathing out the enchanting words of the third umbral-era poets had somehow made him feel less fearful when trying to reach out to others. She was among the very first to whom he had extended that reach.

"We're already joined," the tall, Roegydan woman replied, using his words, "and have been -- joined at the hip, as my parents say, and at the heart, as I would freely admit, since I first ferreted you out in the deep, dark stacks when we were both eleven years old."

"Thou didst desire to protect. It is thy way. Seeing the twisted, maladroit and malformed creature before thee, thou didst rush forth to acknowledge this thing of darkness as thine own," he said, making a slight gesture with his gloved hand toward his own body.

"Don't call thyself darkness," she said, drawn into mimicking his language. Perhaps because so many memorable declarations of love had been written in these words, she somehow felt they expressed her feelings with the fervency she intended. "I cannot bear to hear thee so perniciously maligned by thine own tongue."

"Cannot thee?" he snapped back, his accustomed mild tone shed. "Yet thou wouldst seek to bear all -- my heavy love, breath-crushing indeed if I allowed it to fully be bourne by thee, and the unfettering of my body into thine own, a bearing that, perhaps, would make thee _bear truly_ the result of this union thou seeketh." He stopped when she started to sob, sighing, before resuming his usual gentle manner.

"And, my love -- my only, _only_ love," he whispered, suddenly breathless himself, "thou wouldst have me bear becoming, in our union, that which I've been taught since childhood to revile as the evil seed from which I sprung. I am naught but pleasure made flesh, lust made flesh -- acknowledged, yes, by a father forced to claim me though he be not my sire: bastard though I be, I yet do bear his name. Yet in the bearing, I am reminded what 'tis _he_ cannot bear, why he would have me hooded and cloaked, eyes obfuscated: he cannot bear to gaze upon that which invokes both his obvious shame, indeed, but e'en moreso, 'tis a dread of desires so driving they corrupt reason, o'ercoming it, which he can bear even less than the horns of his cuckholdry. The failure of my mother's _mind_ in my making is the true shame such a devoted scholar as my father bears -- _I_ am his burden."

"You are so much _more_ , Urianger," Moen interrupted. "Allow me to show you -- allow me, finally, to bear you a world in which you can be something other than the shame he projects upon you," she muttered through her choking sobs. "In the circle of my arms, the circle of... my body, I will bear you up, chrysalis-like, until our shared pleasure makes you feel loved not loathsome."

"Indeed, being loved by thee, feeling so well-loved, however so much 'tis undeserved, is that which makes all else worth being bourne," he replied, after a long pause. He was looking away from her now, but she could see his tears slipping, one-by-one, out from underneath the heavy glass of his goggles. "If this be what thou truly desirest, I will... acquiesce," he sighed, releasing a streaming exhale that sounded as though it had been pent up too long. He hung his head low to the ground, looking somehow defeated. "I am, if nothing else, only what I am," he continued softly. "I cannot say, as is the nature of my kind, pleasure-made-flesh, that I have not harboured thoughts most unreasoned toward thee since before thy body was fully formed to receive them."

"Urianger, don't..." she started, moving to comfort him. He startled her then, by clasping her hand and dropping to one knee. "Know this, Moenbryda Wilfsunwyn, most celestial body of mine heart," he said looking up at her. Moen might have giggled at his excessively florid address had not the tension in his grip communicated his earnestness. "To thee I have already bequeathed nigh all that I am. Poor gift that it may be, mine heart was ever thine before even I knew I had one to give. If, however, I give thee.... my b-b-body," he said, falling back into a childhood fearfulness that nearly closed his throat as his body trembled and shook before her, "know that 'tis for thee alone. I shall ne'er take another lover. If thou shouldst forsake me, an understandable, perhaps even desirable course of action considering what I am and the love I bear thee, I shall wither most happily, loving thee still at a distance. I doubt not, knowing thee, the remorse thou wouldst carry if this should come to pass and would not seek to burden thee. Think on it."

"Sweet boy," cooed Moen, kneeling down on both knees to face him and taking both of his long and elegant, though still-gloved hands in her own, "I would wed thee tomorrow." He dropped his eyes, now visibly weeping and she released his hands so that she could smooth the tears from his face. Then they rose together, twining their fingers as they walked slowly out the massive arched doors of the Studium's library into the sleeting, wind-swept night.

Suddenly shy with each other, knowing what they were about to do, Moen and Urianger both sighed as they paused underneath the protective stone of the outer arch. They looked at one another for a moment, nodded, and then sprinted out hand-in-hand through the sleet, headed in the direction of Moen's dormitory. She had a room of her own; they would not be disturbed.

The porter, as always, had made certain the fire in her grate was full-blooming -- a blessing indeed on a night like the one from which the neophyte lovers emerged. Moen immediately started shedding her wet layers as soon as she had closed and locked the door behind them. Urianger just stood in front of the small hearth, dripping. He twisted his gloved hands nervously.

"It's ok," she reassured him with a smile. You don't have to uncover yourself... but you really should change those wet things for something dry," she said, walking over to a large, boxy wardrobe that she'd positioned perpendicular to the long wall of her rectangular room in way that, with a similarly sized bookshelf positioned on the opposite wall, somewhat bisected the room, giving her an illusion of having separate chambers. Her sleeping and study areas were organized in this partially obscured area of the room.

She shuffled around inside the wardrobe until she found one of the hooded Studium robes she'd worn in her first year and a pair of soft woolen gloves hand-knit by her mother. "Here," she said. "You can change into these back there on my bed. Just bring out your wet things and I'll hang them by the grate," she motioned toward the fire. "Oh, do you need something for your feet," she asked, seeing him bend down to unbuckle his boots and slide them hesitantly from his feet. "Are your stockings wet?"

"They are not," he answered, the smallest of crooked grins playing across his features. "Small favours extendeth full through to earth, despite their apparent celestial origin." He's relaxing, she thought to herself, if he can joke in that slyly playful way he has sometimes. She noticed, too, his shoulders loosen a bit from their habitually stiff stance as she handed Urianger the robes and gloves, and Moenbryda was glad she'd made certain he knew she didn't expect him to disrobe. For herself, however, she had different plans.

"Would you toss me the nightie tucked under my pillow, Urianger," she asked. He responded with a grunt and sent the garment flying o'ertop the wardrobe. "Shall I make us some tea to warm up?" she continued, catching her gown with one hand.

"Mmhmmm," he responded, purring out the syllables in a way that made her shiver. Moen wondered if he was trying to be seductive or if he just couldn't help it once he even slightly loosened the grip that forever sought to repress his more libidinal inclinations. She stripped bare, hung her wet things over one of the armchairs positioned by the fire, slipped her nightgown over her head and hung the kettle over the fire, anxious to progress through this strange foreplay-like dance. Still, she didn't want to rush him -- didn't want him to feel pressured to perform for her.

"Oh," she startled, feeling him directly behind her as she stood up from the hearth, one of his hands sliding around her waist to pull her tight up against him, the other gently pushing her long silver hair aside so he could plant a warm and lingering kiss on the nape of her neck. She allowed herself to sink into his embrace for a moment, exhaling a soft moan, before twisting quick and delivering a rough tap of her hand to his chest. "Teleportation is not allowed," she admonished. He gave another one of those playful, lopsided grins and immediately pulled her into a nearly suffocating kiss.

Physically, they had become a less mismatched pair in the last year. Urianger no longer had to stand on his toes to reach for a kiss and she could feel how his shoulders and chest, the muscles of his back, had all thickened and broadened underneath his robes. While he retained a nymph-like slightness through his slender waist and long, long legs, Moen could sense the burgeoning strength in his elegant form. Of course, he wasn't her match when it came to physical strength -- she was Roe after all -- and she still had some weight on him, but she no longer felt he was glass ready to be crushed in her too-eager embrace.

He was taking the initiative even now, gently pushing her, ilm-by-ilm, back in the direction of her bed as they extended their kiss. When she felt the edge of her mattress against the back of her calves, she reached gently into the opening of his borrowed robes to touch him.

"Oh, my beloved," he exhaled, head tilting back, as she wrapped her hand around the shaft of his cock. Like everything else about his body, it was long and elegant. Immediately, his hands were at her hips, sliding her gown up her body and over her head in one movement. He tossed it to the floor. Well, so much for that, Moen thought to herself, sighing at the expense of the silk. She had thought its slippery softness would be seductive. "Thou art all I desire," he said, and she wondered for a moment if he'd added telepathy to his arsenal of spells.

Stripped naked in front of her fully-enrobed lover, Moen felt suddenly vulnerable. She shivered. Releasing the elezen's erection, she curled her arms around her ribs in a tight hug and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before grasping one of Urianger's wool-covered hands, pulling him down to sit next to her. He didn't resist.

"Art thou fearful, my love," he asked gently, concern in his voice. "Thou art in the receptive phase of thy monthly rhythms, perhaps? Or be it the pain? A wretch I am indeed to not have..."

"No, Urianger," she said, putting a finger across his lips to hush his impending self-abuse. It was his turn to shiver now, this simple gesture communicating her love, striving, as she was, to silence his self-loathing. "It's not that... neither of those two...reasons." She sighed. I've counted the days. You can see on my calendar," she continued, gesturing behind him toward her desk. "We're safe." She paused again. "As for the pain, well... there shouldn't be much. My hymen is long dispatched, thanks to the foresight of my Roe ancestors. A ritual phallus, used to penetrate each clanswoman at the onset of her first menses, makes swift work of any hindrances to her taking her pleasure as she sees fit when she finds a partner to her liking," Moen explained. "I've found a partner to my liking," she affirmed, turning her head to smile at him and taking both his hands in her own as she rose from the bed, pulling him up with her. "I'm just cold," she lied as she turned down the covers and slid underneath them, settling her head back on the soft, down-filled pillows.

"Moenbryda..." he started, voice catching in his throat as he looked down on her.

"Come to bed, Urianger," she interjected, reaching for him with one hand as she held the covers up for him with the other. He took her outstretched hand, then, and kissed it before settling himself underneath the covers she dropped lightly over his back as she opened her long legs to make room for his hips.

It was not the easiest first coupling, nor the longest, what with his robes getting tangled with the covers and their mutual inexperience, but with a little manual guidance on her part, Moen finally felt him fully inside her. His gentle first motions, trying to get his bearings, quickly escalated with a bit of coaxing from her rising hips, until the shock of reaching their first mutual climax was reflected in their gasping cries of each other's name -- cries that resonated with the tone and pitch of their forgotten tea kettle's shrill whistle. They laughed, still trying to catch their breath, and he kissed her and kissed her -- all over her cheeks, lips and brow, beaming all the while. Moen had never seen Urianger so seemingly overcome with joy.

"The kettle," she laughed, and Urianger tumbled out of the bed onto the floor, tripped up by his robes twisting with the bedclothes. He pushed himself up on still unsteady legs and hurried over to remove the shrieking kettle from the fire.

"Tea?" he inquired dryly, and Moen couldn't help but laugh again.

"I suppose we could both use a cup," she said, brushing the covers off. "I'll help you."

"Nay, my beloved. Rest." he responded. Moen could still hear the lilt of joy in his voice and her heart skipped both at the newness of it and at the thought that she was responsible for his first real happiness. She settled back under her quilts and turned on her side, settling her head on her arm and listening to dishes softly rattling as Urianger assembled the tea things on their tray. He reappeared a moment later, pulling a small side table over to the bed with one hand while the tea tray balanced atop his other arm.

"Shall I pour?" Moen asked as Urianger set down the tray and she scooted her back to the wall to make room for him at her side. He smiled and shook his head as he set about preparing her tea exactly as he knew she liked it, strong and sweet. Handing it over to her as she propped her head up on one arm to more easily drink, he poured himself a cup and then settled under the covers, back propped against the headboard of Moen's bed. Settled finally, Urianger sipped his tea, unable still to stop smiling.

"I love thee," he said simply over his cup.

"I love you so, _so_ much, Urianger," Moen returned, brimming with love such that it rose from her belly to fill her eyes and spill out upon her cheeks. Her tears provoked a similar response in her lover, who felt his own tears start to mist up the insides of his ever-present goggles even as he couldn't help but maintain his broad grin.

Taking both their drained cups and setting them back on the bedside table, Urianger pulled Moen back into his arms as he settled back down in bed. Warm and sleepy now from both their tea and their exertions, they adjusted their bodies against one another, seeking comfort, as they prepared to share a bed for the very first time. He fell asleep still smiling.

Moen started awake, several bells later, to find herself alone in her bed. Well, not completely alone, she realized, reaching over to grasp her own now-empty robe, the one she'd lent Urianger in exchange for his own soaked coverings. She panicked for a moment, wondering what could possibly have possessed him to bolt, when her grasping hand settled on something even more perplexing: Urianger's heavy glass goggles lay discarded atop her robe. She had never, ever seen him without them in all the years she'd known him. Moen sat up suddenly, startling, in turn, the other occupant of her room.

"Moenbryda," he said softly, surprised. "I did not intend to wake thee." She simply stared. Urianger was completely uncovered, completely naked in fact, staring out the window at the howling storm currently buffeting her dormitory. He turned eyes the color of molten gold upon her, and she froze, momentarily stunned until she shook off the feeling with a toss of her head. He was undeniably beautiful. And those eyes, well, she now understood the ever-present rumor circulating through his childhood that one look at those eyes would make evident his true sire. She'd seen few sights so extraordinary and could truly believe there were not many who possessed the like.

"Oh, Urianger..." Moen sighed, rising from the bed to fold him in her arms. "You're so lovely."

"No match for thee, my love," he returned, "yet, despite it being so, I cannot but regard it as the _sole_ fortunate outcome of the match fickle fate hath played with me that thou wouldst consider such a poor match thine own."

"Will you remain uncovered then," she asked, curious.

"Nay. My true shape," he continued, gesturing toward his body, "I reserveth for thee alone."

"Thou hast best reserveth it for mine eyes alone," Moen answered, teasing him with mock jeolousy as she slid her arms around his naked waist and pulled him gently back toward the bed. "It's cold, Urianger," she said as she moved him, "let's go back to bed."

"Naught remains betwixt us now," he whispered, fixing her with his golden eyes in an unobstructed gaze that was nearly more intimate than their earlier physical coupling. "Eye to eye, we are. Skin to skin."

"Eye to eye," she whispered, watching his eyes smile suddenly as she pulled him down on top of her. "Skin to skin," she continued, feeling the warm, bare skin of his chest sink against her naked breasts. "Urianger?" she asked, yawning now, sleepy again. "Yes, my love?" he responded.

"Urianger?" he heard her say his name again.

"Yes, love? What is it?"

"Urianger?"

"Moenbryda? Moen, what troubles thee, mine own?"

"Urianger....Urianger....Urianger?"

"Urianger! Wake up, man! Open your godsdamned eyes!"

He felt himself slam back into the body he could suddenly feel burning up all around him as he gasped in a single deep breath and snapped open his eyes.

"Ah, you're with us again, my friend," he heard a smooth and breathy voice intone as he tried to focus on perhaps the only eyes in Eorzea more startling than his own.

"Hit him with another clemency, Aymeric," he heard a rougher, lower voice demand.

"I am not _made_ of aether, Estinien," he heard the smooth voice answer. "Well, I suppose, in fact, I am, but I can wield only so much at a time. Hand me one of the potions from the panniers and we'll try to help him drink. Oh, and get the blankets. He needs warming-up."

Estinien stood from the prone elezen's side and did as the Lord Commander requested, fetching the soft woolen blankets and healing potions from the giant chocobo's saddlebags and trying to bundle the injured man against the still-blowing storm as Aymeric gently lifted the scion, one arm braced 'round the back of his shoulders, and tried to help him drink.

Urianger coughed, sputtered, his throat somehow having forgotten how to swallow.

Moving quickly to kneel behind where Aymeric held him, Estinien rubbed and clapped the injured man's back, trying to clear his aspirated lungs. "Come now, Scion. You helped save a world, more than one e'en; surely you can remember how to drink," the dragoon cajoled, short on comfort in his worry. He did not wish to fail his dear Alphinaud's friend.

Aymeric un-stoppered another healing potion and, with Estinien helping him to move Urianger into a more upright position, the golden-eyed elezen managed to choke down a full vial. He instantly felt warmed from the inside out. Then, granted just one full breath before he felt himself hauled roughly into Estinien's arms, Urianger gasped in pain.

"Go gently, Estinien," Aymeric admonished. "He's still hurt."

"And he will remain so until we're back in Ishgard," the dragoon rejoined. "We must needs return quickly, Aymeric; the storm does not abate."

The knight nodded his head in agreement and hoisted himself back into the saddle, twisting in his seat to help Estinien settle the injured man on bird-back, the archon's blanket-swaddled back braced against Estinien's chest, his head still lolling forward in semi-consciousness. Reaching past Urianger to grip his knight's waist hard with both his hands, Estinien pressed the scion tight between his and Aymeric's bodies, trying to both convey warmth and to somewhat allay the inherent jostle of chocobo travel. Then the dragoon sank his own strong thighs into either side of the bird and bent his head forward.

"Fly!" he called to Aymeric, "fast as you can, my love. Let us return to Ishgard!"

"Urianger," sighed out a soft voice beside him, and the golden-eyed elezen fluttered open his lashes to see Alisaie waiting by his bedside, a look of relief spread across her features.

"Milady," he rasped out, barely able yet to speak. "Don't Urianger," Alisaie cautioned. "I'll fetch the healer." Turning, she left the room on softly padding feet, used from her time spent nursing on the First to going softly in a sick room.

"I swear by the Fury Herself, if any more of you dancing folk end up in my infirmary beds, I may develop a distinct distaste for this Starlight Suite business as a whole," chuckled the Captain of Ishgard's Knight Hospitallers, Ser Abel, as he entered the room. He strode over to the elezen's bed and gently clasped the man by the chin, steadying his head as he shone a small light-producing wand into each of his eyes in succession. Alisaie slipped back in through the door then, careful, again, to cause as little disturbance as possible.

"Pray, how long..." started the scholar, his voice still a whisper.

"Only a day, Master Augerelt, interrupted the healer, precluding the need for the elezen to continue speaking. "And you shouldn't need to rest here more than an additional set of twenty-four bells if only you would lie quiet and rest."

"There are no enduring injuries then, Ser" Alisaie asked from behind Abel, her voice low. Abel turned. "Nothing, my dear," he said, smiling warmly. "You scions seem to be nearly as immune to lasting injury as our own former Azure Dragoon," he laughed out.

"Speaking of which, both the Lord Speaker and Ser Estinien, having retrieved him from the storm, wish to have a look at our friend here -- as does that brother of yours, Mistress Alisaie, who nigh became a permanent fixture in these rooms when that favourite dragoon of ours yet lay abed," he said, shaking his head at the memory. "I think I shall allow it, if it be amenable to thee, Master Augerelt?"

Urianger nodded.

"Fine then. As your rescuers, I believe they have the right to see what has become of you, and I can tell Estinien is fretting. There is nothing I want less in my sickrooms than an anxious former Azure Dragoon. I'll send them in," he said, walking through the door and closing it softly behind him.

"Urianger!" exclaimed Alphinaud, bursting into the room as he tried surreptitiously to wipe tears from his eyes.

"Shhh, Brother!" responded his twin, a finger to her lips. "A sick room is no place for such noise." He looked suitably cowed.

Entering just behind the younger elezen, Ser Aymeric, Estinien by his side, walked over to the scion's bedside and, smiling, took up Urianger's hand between both his own. "You gave us a bit of a scare, my friend," the knight began in smooth, soothing tones. "Fortunate are we that you are made of such sturdy stuff, Sharlyan though you be as opposed to Coerthan. Full glad am I to see thee on the mend."

"Most grateful am I for thy aid, Lord Speaker," Urianger said, his voice growing less rough as he continued. "And thou didst pull me from the drifts, did thee not, Ser Estinien?" Urianger asked, turning his head slightly to look up at the looming dragoon. Estinien nodded slowly, a bit perplexed. "I am indebted to thee then, Ser, a debt that must needs be repaid with interest accrued to that interest which is thine own," said the archon.

Estinien's brow furrowed, his lips smashing close together, clamped tight, as though he was unwilling to allow himself a response to the golden-eyed elezen. Quickly, Aymeric worked out the archon's meaning in his mind and said, with his usual grace, "I believe, my dearest, that Master Augerelt is saying he owes you a favour."

"Ah," replied Estinien, nodding. "No need, my friend," he assured Urianger. "The Scions have done enough for Ishgard, for all of Eorzea really, to be owed rather than owing."

"Indeed they have," echoed the Lord Commander, squeezing Urianger's hand between his own once before placing it gently back atop the coverlet. "But I believe we outstay our welcome. You must rest, my friend." Bowing to the bedridden man, Aymeric allowed his dragoon to give Urianger a short nod, his arm loosely held around Estinien's waist, before he guided his lover from the room.

"I owe _thee_ for their aid, Master Alphinaud. Well am I aware of it," Urianger acknowledged.

"You owe _nothing_ , Urianger," Alphinaud replied, gently embracing the man, mindful of his sister's watchful eye. "But Ser Aymeric is right. You needs must rest. Come Alisaie," the boy said, beckoning to his twin.

"But..." Alisaie started to protest.

"Thy brother hast the right of it, Milady," Urianger interjected. "Little doubt have I that every bell I have spent abed hath been filled by thy presence at my side. Thou hast earned thy rest as well, child," he smiled at her. "Get thee gone, girl," he said in mock derision, squeezing her hand in his own and making a playfully scowling face. In response, the girl gave him a quick embrace of her own, tears of relief in her eyes, before following her brother from the room.

Urianger woke to the feeling of an unknown presence in his room. Immediately, he tensed.

"Nay, my boy. Pray, do not be afeared. We mean thee no harm," he heard a voice say from the far corner of his darkened room. A soft violet glow suddenly lit up the same corner, illuminating the form of an elezen man, if not yet his face. The glow then flitted about the man, alighting for a moment near enough to that face for Urianger to recognize the man as elderly, before darting toward the scion's bed and hovering in the air above his lap.

Fey then, he thought to himself. Wonderful. "Master Pierrault?" inquired the younger elezen. One could never accuse the very most erudite scion from not doing his research once he'd fully committed to a plan of action; he had read up on the man in the days previous to his unfortunate departure for Ishgard. "The pleasure of thy company is pleasure indeed, Master, but now, at this darkest bell of night, thy company speaks to a necessity beyond pleasure. What wouldst thou have of me, Sir?" Urianger asked in his low, silky voice.

"Oh," said the man, looking strangely discomfited, an almost melancholy expression on his face as he approached Urianger's bedside. He pointed to the chair directly next to the bed. "May I?" he asked. The younger man nodded and the older took his place, settling heavily into the chair.

"Word came to me tonight that we had received quite a boon in terms of fortune," the master said quietly as he pulled something from behind his back and handed it to Urianger. "Lord Emmanellain's men recovered your lost panniers just outside Camp Dragonhead," he said.

"Ah, the poppet," said the scion, picking up the Clockwork Nutcracker he'd crafted back at the Stones, trying so desperately, in the earliest days of his return to the Source, to distract his mind from his memories. He wound the very large, very obvious key in its back, a decoration rather than necessity, and set the toy on his lap, watching it perform its rather intricate little combination of _entrechat_ and _pirouette_ , jumping up to beat its tiny feet before and behind, before and behind, nearly too quickly to register, before dropping into its turns.

"Both clever and beautiful, my boy," said the older man fondly -- too fondly, really, for a complete stranger, Urianger thought. "My son, my late son, that is, he had quite the talent for constructing clockworks himself, was obsessed with them really," continued the master, sighing. "Would...would you like to see one, Master Augerelt," the man asked nervously, fumbling with something at this neck, "one that he made... that my son made, that is?" Urianger had the distinct impression that the Ballet Master, a man, who, according to report, possessed a nearly unshakable disposition, was terribly nervous.

Pierrault pulled a round pendant, hanging on a light chain, from inside his coat, took it from around his neck, and held the metal disk flat in the palm of this hand. "It's a locket of sorts," explained the master, opening the disk so that its lid stood perpendicular to his palm. His fairy hurried to flutter at the older man's side, using the violet glow of her aether to somehow power up the works that propelled the compact device into motion. "Look on the far wall, there, my boy," directed the master, "where it's still dark." Urianger complied, glancing at the wall as he saw light stream from the locket to project an enlarged image on the wall's surface.

"It's a portrait, Urianger. A family portrait: me, my wife and son -- oh, I guess he was about twelve-years old at the time," Pierrault continued. Urianger looked. Then he blinked and looked again. He glanced briefly into the Master's eyes, saw there only a desperate waiting, and turned back again to stare at the image on the wall for several long moments. He blinked once more, slowly this time, fully processing what, indeed, it was he was seeing. Then, finally, his mouth dropped slowly open, his breath caught in his throat before he even had the opportunity to properly gasp: projected by light onto the dark wall of his sick room were not one, but _two_ pairs of eyes coloured the same molten gold as his own.


	4. Divertissement, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing about pointe shoes: every aspiring ballet girl is desperate for the pretty, beribboned, little torture boxes...until she gets them. Then the rest of her years in ballet class are spent trying to avoid putting the damned things on until the very last possible moment before they're required. Now, I myself have come to enjoy pointe work; some thirty years since I got my first pair, I still find it kind of magical to hover across the floor, feet barely skimming the ground. But to show for that predilection, I have a permanent angry red callus on the front of each and every toe, and all of my toes are kind of always curled-in, even when I try to straighten them. And, yes, on more than one occasion, I have indeed had a toenail turn black and fall off, and the last time wasn't even all that long ago. And, of course, pointe shoes are super expensive and we go through them super fast. Fortunately Estinien's are paid for; though, I think if Ishgard auctioned off Aymeric giving pedicures, not only would Estinien be well kept in pointe shoes, but the entire Ishgardian Restoration would be instantly well-funded.
> 
> Oh, and thanks so much to Birdnerd18 for the direct quotation and, indeed, the entire conceit that ends this chapter!!!
> 
> The middle of this chapter contains pedicure-related NSFW content.

Estinien felt himself nodding off, the sway of the airship rocking him to sleep. Perhaps, as Aymeric had earlier admonished, he should not in fact have been lying down on his back, one arm behind his head, his long body taking up the space reserved for at least seven passengers. Fortunately, as he and Aymeric had chosen an odd time specifically so Ishgard's Lord Speaker could travel with only his lover as attendant and guard, they were the sole passengers onboard.

"Wake up, love," he heard Aymeric say, the other man's hand coming to rest higher on the dragoon's thigh than was warranted by a wake-up nudge. Estinien pulled himself into a sitting position, stretching his arms high over his head before yawning and brushing his fringe from his eyes.

"You don't often wear your hair like that anymore," his knight said, looking fondly down at Estinien and reaching to grasp his chin, tilting his dragoon's head from side to side, as though inspecting his face. "It reminds me of when we were boys," Aymeric continued.

"'Tis hot in the desert," Estinien grunted out in response. "I want it off my neck."

"Gods, Estinien, how I used to long, in the days when we were yet young knights, to lick the sweat from your nape when your tail was swept up from it like that," Aymeric said, his face starting to flush and his voice even breathier than usual.

"I wanted you to," Estinien said, darting up to kiss him, "I just didn't know it yet." He smiled. "Come now, Aymeric. This is Ul'dah. There's no room for "Estinien de Borel" here; we must go carefully."

"You are very much mistaken, my love," Aymeric countered, his voice a soft sussuration exhaled against Estinien's ear, "with enough coin offered, I could take you up against a wall in the streets."

Estinien's eyes widened at his knight's desert-cat purr. "We must needs keep you out of the heat, my lord," he returned, slightly out of breath, "it has somewhat of an effect upon you."

" _You_ have an effect upon me, dearest," Aymeric quipped and broke away suddenly, laughing.

"We're docking in a moment, Lord Speaker," called out the pilot. "Please, Ser, take a seat if you don't mind."

Aymeric graciously complied, taking Estinien's hand within his own as he sat down next to him. "Alright, let's review our itinerary, love," he suggested.

"I'm for the Weaver's Guild to get fitted for those odd slippers -- what are they called again, Aymeric, pointe shoes?" Estinien asked.

Aymeric nodded. "Master Pierrault sent the designs ahead weeks ago. Guild Master Rose should have several pairs available for you to try by now," Aymeric recounted. Estinien nodded his head in response. "You should, however, spare a few moments, my dear, to greet Nanamo and the others before you bugger off on your own," Aymeric reminded his lover.

Estinien sighed. "If I must," he conceded. "But I am _not_ staying for your little tea party, Aymeric. Diplomacy is your sphere."

"'Tis my 'cup of tea,' indeed," his lord answered, grinning slyly, "so it is a good thing I am attending a party of precisely that persuasion, despite your disparagement of such revelry." Estinien just rolled his eyes in response and nudged Aymeric's shoulder with his own as the two men stood up to bow in thanks to their Airship Pilot before disembarking.

Striding side by side through the Airship platform, the pair looked as inconspicuous as possible for a man with a massive lance slung across his back and another who was nigh preternaturally beautiful -- which it to say, not inconspicuous at all. Estinien was seriously surprised every time some gawking passerby didn't have to drop to the ground and roll some twenty-sided dice to avoid being peremptorily stunned by Aymeric's face. He had gotten used to steeling his own expression against reacting _every single time_ someone ogled what was _his_ , but the concentration he exerted in doing so was, perhaps, what prevented the dragoon from being remotely aware of all the glances turned to his own striking features.

At least the Sultana had succeeded in convincing Aymeric that his traditional Lord Commander regalia would not be required for this rather less formal meeting of the Eorzean Alliance's Heads of State. Dressed simply, his beloved knight was less of a target.

They had expected no formal reception at the airship, as per pre-agreed arrangement, again to avoid attracting any undue attention, so Estinien was surprised to see a white-haired, bearded lalafell waving to them.

"Master Papashan," Aymeric said, bowing to greet what was, to a full-grown elezen, the rather lilliputian man. "I thought we had agreed to forgo a reception. Has there, mayhap, been a change in plans?"

"Ser Aymeric," smiled the man. "Tis good to see thee. You as well, Ser Estinien," Papashan said nodding to the dragoon. "No change of plans, my dear Sers. It just occurred to me, as I was awaiting your arrival, that you had never before made your way unaccompanied through the Hustings Strip," he continued. "It can be a bit of a maze. So I thought to come and help you get your bearings."

Estinien could actually see what the paladin meant as he led them through various circles and courts and staircases to the Fragrant Chamber, through which they would have to pass in order to be led into the more intimate rooms where they would meet Nanamo. As they approached their destination, however, despite an escort meant to soothe their way through the Ul'dahn labyrinth, he could sense his usually equanimous knight growing evermore anxious, his breath-rate increasing and a slight sheen of sweat shining at his temples.

"What troubles thee, 'meric?" he whispered quietly, just under his breath.

"Oh pay me no mind, my love," Aymeric returned with a sheepish smile. "'Tis just, well, the prospect of meeting the Admiral face-to-face sometimes affects me thusly."

"Merlwyb?" asked Estinien, surprised. He hadn't thought anyone terrifying enough to shake Aymeric's diplomatic poise; after all, the man had treated with Hraesvelgr himself in order to end the Dragonsong War.

"Merlwyb," nodded the Lord Speaker, letting out a long, sighing breath through his teeth. "She can be intimidating indeed when she so chooses. Have you seen the way she wields those pistols of hers?" Aymeric asked.

"Have you seen the way you wield Naegling, love?" Estinien returned, grinning at him a little. "'Tis meant to be a two-handed sword, you know," he chided.

"Aye," returned Aymeric, "I've become accustomed, in the course of my martial career, to _handling_ the most unwieldy of weapons," he said pointedly, "present company very much included." Estinien actually laughed out loud at that, attracting the attention of their guide just as they arrived at the Hall of Rule.

"Is there aught amiss, Sers," Papashan asked, leading the men through the many guards, halls, chambers and doors that eventually brought them to the Sultana's private sitting room. Not waiting for an answer, Papashan arrived at an open doorway and paused to announce the new arrivals: "the Lord Viscount de Borel, Lord Speaker of the House of Lords, Lord Commander of..."

"Yes, yes, Papashan, we know who he is," interrupted Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, Admiral of Limsa Lominsa's Maelstrom and leader of the Thalassocratic City-State. She waved a large hand, beckoning in the two men as both Nanamo Ul Namo and Kan-E-Senna, her counterparts in Ul'dah and Gridania, respectively, laughed beside her at the tea table. "Come in, Aymeric. You too, Azure Dragoon."

" _Former_ Azure Dragoon," Estinien said testily, slightly rankled at the women's behavior, mostly for Aymeric's sake, knowing now how uneasy she made him.

"Thank you, Papashan, for escorting them," said Nanamo sweetly. "It was a kind..."

"By the Navigator's tits, man," the Admiral said to Aymeric, interrupting the Sultana and ignoring Estinien, "your name has more "lords" in it than an Ul'dahn brothel!"

"Merlwyb!" Nanamo gasped, bringing her hands to rapidly reddening cheeks and continuing to laugh, as Papashan took the opportunity afforded by the Admiral's onslaught to dash back out the door. Estinien noticed the lalafell's retreat and was distinctly envious of the man.

"I only say what everyone thinks, Nanamo," replied the Admiral, busying herself by pouring out a cup of tea, her movements abrupt and swift. "It's birch syrup for you, right _Lord_ Commander," she continued, her inflection intentionally ironic, as she finished doctoring the brew and set it down with such force at Aymeric's intended place that it spilled up over the sides and onto his saucer. "Sit down, then, Aymeric," she commanded.

"Of course," he responded dazedly, moving to obey as if by rote before recalling that Estinien was still in the room. Immediately his nobleman's manners, temporarily shaken by the Admiral's demands, snapped back into place. "May I present to my esteemed fellow leaders, my dear friend, Ser Estinien..."

"Aymeric," interjected Merlwyb once again, "must you always stand so on ceremony? We all know the Azure Dragoon, _former_ or not, nearly as well as we know that while he is indeed _dear_ to you, he is much more than merely your friend." Aymeric's beautiful face looked as if someone had struck it; for once even his diplomatic instincts had failed him. Merlwyb sighed heavily. "For Gods' sake, man, kiss your boyfriend," she said more gently. " _He_ has somewhere to be, as Nanamo has informed us, and _we_ have much to speak on in regard to this whole Starlight Suite business. You are unlikely to see his comely, if somewhat surly, face for at least the length of several bells."

"You are among friends here, Ser Aymeric," said the gentle, calming voice of Kan-E-Senna from his side, and from her space across the table, the knight noticed Nanamo nodding vigorously in agreement with the Elder Seedsayer. She gave the dark-haired man an encouraging smile.

Still, Aymeric just stood there, blinking and frozen, until Estinien, unable to bear his lord's discomfiture for one moment longer, leaned in to kiss his knight hard on the mouth. Aymeric's eyes widened for a second and then closed into the kiss.

Breaking the kiss, Estinien took Aymeric by the hand and led him to sit down at his place. He squeezed his dark-haired lord's hand once before stepping back, nodding at the room. "Your Grace," he said to the Sultana. "Elder Seedsayer," he bowed slightly toward Kan-E-Senna.

""Tis good to meet you again, Ser Estinien," she returned with a slight incline of her head.

" _Admiral_ ," he said, shaking his head, a slight grin on his lips despite himself. "If you will excuse me, I do indeed have some business of my own to which I must attend," he continued.

"Be not fearful, Ser Dragoon, we will take _excellent_ care of him," Merlwyb barked out, a final volley.

"Of that I have no doubt," returned the dragoon as he turned to walk out the door.

"And fret not, Estinien; we'll not allow Merlwyb to continue bullying the poor thing," Nanamo said, giggling.

"What?" he heard the Roegadyn bark out as he blissfully shut the door behind him, leaving his lord to the sharks -- well at least one shark, he thought, but a fierce enough one that for Aymeric to have a chance of engaging her on equal terms, he would most certainly need a bigger boat. Unfortunately for his love, the only one in possession of such a vessel was the very shark herself.

  


Half a bell and many twistings and turnings, losings of his way, re-tracings of his steps and random streams of cursing later, Estinien found himself in front of the Weaver's Guild. He sat down heavily on some ornate stonework by the Aetheryte crystal and sighed, flustered. Well, he'd set no particular time for his appointment, he thought to himself, so he could afford to have a bit of a rest before he went in.

Wiggling his toes in his boots, he felt the sticky tape wrapped tight around each digit, and feeling it, he was reminded how it got there. Estinien smiled then, feeling a rising blush soften the severe angles of his face with a light pink glowing. So very, very early this morning that it was, in fact, late last night, he was lying sprawled and naked on top of his and Aymeric's bed, trying and failing to avoid giggling as his equally naked knight, seated facing away from him between the dragoon's spread-wide thighs, took his left foot in hand and attempted to give a man once regarded as Ishgard's mightiest warrior his very first pedicure.

"Stop squirming, Estinien," Aymeric scolded his lover. "Your nails need to be clipped and filed short so they don't cut into your flesh while you're en pointe. And it needs to be done properly or you'll be prone to a host of nail-related maladies -- in-grown toenails, bruising and bleeding," the knight continued, "the nails can even become so damaged they simply turn black and fall off."

"Better than _other things_ shriveling and falling off," Estinien rejoined, rocking his hips side to side in laughter as Aymeric inadvertently touched a particularly ticklish spot on his arch.

"Estinien!" Aymeric said, raising his voice. "Hush yourself and be still!" The knight's hands felt warm and firm on his lover's elegantly-arched feet and Estinien tried his best to settle himself and enjoy the sensation of Aymeric handling him. It had been but a fortnight past that his lingering anxieties regarding his own contribution to Aymeric's injuries had faded enough to allow his draconic features to also disappear, even the tail. And while Aymeric seemed to somewhat regret their loss, especially the tail, Estinien felt comfortable again in his body.

"You must have each nail cut straight across the top, not too rounded," Aymeric continued to explain, "and just below the top of the toe itself if possible, so the nails take no pressure from your weight when you're up en pointe." Estinien could hear the careful snipping of the clippers as Aymeric went silent, concentrating. "Hand me my pendant, love. You know the one," Aymeric asked.

"What are you going to do with _that_?" Estinien asked, his interest piqued, as he reached up behind the bed-post on Aymeric's side. Only recently had he dicovered Aymeric's trick in regard to the placement of their little glass vial pendant, a trick that made it seem as if he could produce the trinket out of thin air: there was, in fact, a small hook on the back of the post, over which his lord had looped the pendant's fine silver chain. Estinien pulled the chain from the hook and handed it down to Aymeric. He heard his lord un-stopper it and pour oil out into the palm of his hand; then he waited, wondering..."Oh" he moaned as he felt Aymeric's strong hands rub oil into the arch of his left foot.

"I cannot hope to do anything with your calluses until they're softened," Aymeric informed him, moving to massage more oil into Estinien's heel and the ball of his foot before switching to repeat the process on his other foot. "Though I suppose I shouldn't do anything to them at all. Toughened feet are nigh essential for pointe work," he said as he continued to knead his fingers hard into Estinien's arch. "Now, my love," he said as he finished, turning to flash his patented boyish grin at his dragoon, "shall I paint your toes first or tape them, do you think?"

"What?" Estinien asked.

"We must needs wrap tape around each of your toes so you don't get blisters. Most folks think it is the tips of one's toes that are most prone to blisters when en pointe, but 'tis the front of each digit that is most vulnerable to damage from rubbing against the inside of the stiffened toe box," Aymeric explained as he started tearing off small strips of a gauzy cloth backed with a sticky, adhesive substance and carefully wrapping them, ring-like, around each of Estinien's toes.

"Feels odd," said Estinien, "to have something between my toes."

"And now something more," Aymeric said, rising from the bed like Menphina from the sea-spray and walking over to his chest of drawers to scrabble for something inside. "I bought this for you especially," he said holding up a small glass bottle of what looked to be some heavily pigmented liquid.

"'Tis pink, Aymeric," Estinien said, "pale pink, e'en."

"Yes, my love, it is," the sable-haired man said with a dark smile. "It precisely matches the colour of your cock when 'tis just rising to tumescence," Aymeric continued. The dragoon's cheeks immediately turned a shade to match what was in the bottle. Reaching to pull some karakul wool from the same drawer, Aymeric returned and sat down again between Estinien's spread legs.

"What are you doing now," asked Estinien, lifting his head to try and crane around Aymeric's back as the dragoon felt the warm, soft wool slip in between to separate each of his toes.

"Wouldn't wish for you to smudge your varnish, dearest," Aymeric said, laughing. Then Estinien felt the cool slick of a thick, viscous substance being painted onto the surface of each toenail as he simultaneously became aware of a rather caustic, chemical odor spreading itself throughout the bedroom.

"What a stink!" exclaimed the dragoon.

"'Tis the price of beauty, Estinien," Aymeric smirked at him.

"You're the beauty, Blue," Estinien replied.

"Yes, I am aware of the fact, and this is the price paid for keeping me all to yourself: you must needs indulge my whims on occasion... no, wait, wait, I jest, Estinien; I jest." Aymeric held up his hands in mock surrender -- one still holding the bottle of varnish -- and hissed out laughter through his teeth as Estinien prepared to launch a pillow at his head.

"Just finish painting my toes, fool!" Estinien growled and slid his intended projectile behind his neck to prop up his head. Aymeric finished up, then capped the bottle of varnish and replaced it back in his drawers. He removed something else.

"Well, well, dearest 'stinien, what in Eorzea shall we do with ourselves while we wait for that varnish to dry?" Aymeric asked, pouncing down between the dragoon's spread thighs on the bed. "We wouldn't, as I said earlier, want you to smudge your varnish, so perhaps it would be best if you were to be....immobilized," he said, eyes narrowing to slits as he slowly slid the rippling silk scarves he'd retrieved across Estinien's bare chest. Backing slowly from the dragoon, he pulled the smooth silk down the path of his retreat, drawing it ilm by ilm across his lover's belly, his cock and tightly drawn-up sack, and through the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Estinien trembled.

Sliding completely off the foot of the bed now, Aymeric picked up Estinien's left leg at the ankle and, being careful to avoid smudging his nail varnish, tugged the other man down just a bit, using the scarf to fasten his leg to a bedpost. He did the same to his lover's right ankle, making certain to allow enough slack to ensure Estinien's comfort. The dragoon made no attempt to resist.

""I am fairly certain you are not going about this correctly, Aymeric," Estinien quipped. "If I am not mistaken, is it not my _arms_ that are meant to be restrained?"

"But how could I feel you holding me if I were to bind your arms, love?" Aymeric asked, his expression suddenly shorn of both its most recent emotions; neither playful nor predatory, Aymeric's widened, yearning eyes made his countenance appear as stripped naked as his body.

Sometimes Estinien forgot Aymeric had vulnerabilities of his own: being beautiful invited envy as often as admiration, making it difficult for him to cultivate the _closeness_ he so longed for in his relations with others.

"Come here," the dragoon growled, spreading his arms as wide as his were his thighs, inviting his beloved knight into his embrace. Aymeric heeded his beckoning, slinking over Estinien's body to straddle his hips. He poured oil from the vial hung 'round his neck into his hand and rubbed his palms together, heating the geranium-scented liquid, before reaching both hands to fully encircle his lover's cock.

"Fury, Aymeric," Estinien murmured softly, his eyes closing.

"How does it feel to know how _badly_ I want you inside me?" Estinien heard Aymeric pant, low and breathy, into his ear.

"Oh," was the single syllable of response Estinien felt capable of returning as his lord removed his hands and slowly, gradually, completely wrapped _himself_ around the dragoon's cock.

"Estinien," Aymeric exhaled, his low voice sibilant, drawing out his lover's name as he entwined the fingers of each hand with that of his dragoon's and, pushing his weight down upon Estinien's braced double grip, began to move the other man's length around inside him, massaging it with slow rotations of his hips, tightening around it as he drew himself up and down and circling 'round Estinien's erection.

Estinien felt himself becoming incapable of thought, much less speech, as he dissolved into the pleasuring. All he could manage was a constant stream of soft mewling moans in time with the shallow thrustings of hips pinned beneath Aymeric's weight.

Like a Moonfire rocket, Estinien burst inside his knight before he was aware he was even close.

Then, sight dark and thoughts hazy, he was only barely cognizant of Aymeric withdrawing to the foot of the bed and loosing both his ankles from the bedposts, only barely aware of the plink of glass against glass as the stopper to the vial strung 'round his lover's neck was removed and replaced.

"Aymeric," he moaned, pleading for his return.

"Hush, love," he heard whispered back as he felt weight settle between his legs again. Sighing into a smile at the return of the other man's presence, Estinien felt strong arms grip around the back of each thigh, lifting his legs so that his knees bent to his shoulders. The dragoon snapped open his eyes.

"Aymeric," he said, looking up at the man bending over him.

"No?" asked his knight, his eyes questioning.

"No?" Estinien said in return, somewhat confused. He felt Aymeric start to pull back and quickly darted out an arm to stop him. "No!" he said. "I mean, of course not 'no.' I mean 'yes.' Very much 'yes!' I want you, Aymeric." His knight smiled above him as Estinien moved to place him, and Aymeric pressed as slowly and carefully _inside_ his dragoon as he had lowered himself _around_ him only moments earlier.

"Oh, my beloved," said the knight, sunk full-deep. Estinien sighed sweetly in return, so happy to feel the fullness of his lover's heavy length inside of him again, his own just-barely softened cock too lazy from its exertions to even bother twitching. Still, it did not matter: Aymeric's delight was his own, and his knight's broad body felt so warm and weighty above him, so comforting.

"Estinien," Aymeric moaned as he fucked his Silver slowly, measuredly, not too deep, knowing the dragoon was not aroused enough to dull the discomfort of a frantic rutting.

In response, Estinien wrapped his entire long body around his knight, arms 'round his shoulders, legs 'round Aymeric's hips, clinging to him with force enough that he communicated the fullness of his devotion by mere embrace.

It was enough.

With a single, whimpering sigh, Aymeric spent himself inside his Silver. He rolled himself to Estinien's side, then, and settled against his lover, prompting Estinien to try turning to face him.

"Wait, love," Aymeric cautioned, placing a hand on Estinien's chest to keep him on his back. "Your varnish may still be tacky; you'll smudge it in the sheets if you turn into them," the knight cautioned.

Estinien had nodded in answer and snuggled himself more fully into the mattress, pulling Aymeric closer to his side as he prepared to settle into rest. Not that there had been much of _that_ , honestly, their flight to Ul'dah had left early. This deficit of sleep, then, was beginning to weigh most heavily upon Estinien, causing him to nearly nod off for the second time that day, when he felt the prickling presence of someone staring down at him.

"Ser Estinien!" said a booming voice, "what in Eorzea are you doing out here?"

Estinien looked up to see a huge Roegadyn man taking his measure, most likely literally.

"Come now, Ser," said the Roe, "we have been waiting with much excitement for your arrival!"

  


Sometime later, Estinien stood in the Weaver's Guild in Ul'dah feeling mightily pleased with himself as he executed a series of _pirouettes_ and _fouetté_ turns en pointe.

"These feel best, Rose," said the dragoon, settling down into a deep fourth from his last turn.

"Let's sew the ribbons on, then, and the ankle strap, so we can have the placement exact on the additional pairs you will need," replied the huge guild leader. "And there's a gap around your heel on both feet. We'll need to make a note of the necessary alterations. It shouldn't take more than a couple moments, Ser," continued the Roe.

"Please call me Estinien, Rose," the dragoon said, removing the shoes, and handing them into the man's massive hands. "I have had enough enforced formality to less several lifetimes," he continued, sighing.

"Comes with living in Ishgard, I suppose," smiled the larger man as, rapidly noting the necessary alterations, he delivered Estinien's pointe shoes into the hands of Aethelwine, a journeyman weaver in the guild. "Now, as for your costume, I had thought, well, since Ser Aymeric will be in blue of course..."

"Of course," nodded Estinien with a wry grin. 

The Roe man laughed. "Not his usual blue, alas, but blue nonetheless -- Borel blue is a bit too dark for the Land of Sweets. Still, if fashion is, indeed, as I have avowed time and time again, an expression of one's innermost self for all the world to see, we can hardly have the Lord Viscount de Borel in anything but a shade of the truest blue."

"Tights and coat both?" asked Estinien, his interest stirred by imagining _precisely_ what Aymeric would be wearing.

"Aye. I had thought the jacket might be azure actually, ironic considering his partner," answered Rose. Estinien snorted in answer. "But the tights will be a slightly lighter shade, more akin to pastel, I think," Rose continued. "And for you, I had thought perhaps white: white tights, white coat with sugarplum pink trim -- and perhaps some sugarplum ribbons in your hair as well. You will wear it down of course?"

"Will I?" asked Estinien, considering. "I had thought it was supposed to be pinned in a chignon."

"Ah, but your hair is so lovely, if you don't mind me saying so, Estinien," said the other man. "I designed my entire concept around the idea that you would wear it loose -- white tights, white coat, pure white hair!" boomed the Roe enthusiastically. "Ah! Here are the shoes, alterations made," Rose said, taking them from Aethelwine before Estinien had a chance to respond to the stylist's admonitions about his hair. "Try them on," urged Redolent Rose.

Estinien immediately dropped to the floor and slid his left foot into the shoe, settling a band of soft, stretchy material across the front of his slender ankle -- amazing stuff that was; he wondered how Rose constructed it so that it was malleable, stretching out and then snapping back into place instantly. Then he tended to his ribbons.

"Do you require my help with those, Estinien," asked the big Roe. "Master Pierrault left instructions about how they should be tied," he continued.

"Thank you, but I think I have it," Estinien answered. "Aymeric told me how they work -- outside ribbon across the front of my ankle, wrapped around once and through, and then inner ribbon crossed in front and wrapped around once and again to meet the other at the inside of my ankle," he said, talking himself through the motions.

"You have it," the other man encouraged him.

"Then I knot it once and roll the ribbon ends together to tuck them in under the knot," the dragoon continued.

"Voila!" said Rose, " you have it indeed. We should glue those ribbon ends too, so they don't fray."

Estinien nodded in agreement, tied on his other shoe, and then rose to his feet. He pranced a bit, warming up his feet and ankles again. Then he took his perfectly closed fifth position and started to roll slowly up en pointe, making certain he was fully "over the box," that his weight was slightly _over_ his toes, pressing into the front of each toe instead of its tip. Slowly rolling back down, meticulously articulating each foot and switching them so that his left foot was now forward, he returned to his fifth. Estinien repeated the motion several times, recalling Master Pierrault's instructions as he did so: use your thighs, your core, your neck and head to help lift and pull your body weight up and out of the shoes. Do not slump into the toe box, allowing it to do the work of keeping you en pointe; instead, think of your feet rising up and away from the floor, as though they were straining to take off into flight. 

But do not take off into flight! Both Pierrault and Aymeric had made certain to stress that particular point. And it was a strange sensation indeed for Estinien, because of course he _knew_ the feeling of pushing off into flight. But being en pointe was more about the feeling of hovering, of gliding just above the floor rather than hurling oneself full away from it; it was a more subtle defiance of gravity.

Assuring Redolent Rose that the altered shoes more than met his needs, Estinien spun himself into a triple _pirouette_ and then settled back onto the floor to remove them.

"Take those with you, Estinien," said the Roe. "I'll have another ten pair ready by your departure time tomorrow, and I will send an additional ten pair per week, or more as needed. Master Pierrault said that you might, because of the sheer strength of your feet, go through even more shoes than most ballerinas."

"He told me something similar," agreed the dragoon. "We'll just have to wait and see how quickly I break them."

"Now, if you don't mind, my friend," said the larger man, "pray let me escort you into the back so I can take your measurements properly. Your shoulders look a touch broader to me than is recounted by the numbers so graciously sent by Master Pierrault," he smiled.

"'Twas done in haste, I'm afraid," nodded Estinien, "by Ser Aymeric nonetheless, and while he has ample experience taking a man's measure in a diplomatic or political context, he has absolutely none in taking men's literal measurements." The dragoon laughed, then, remembering Aymeric scolding him to keep still and stop giggling as he looped the tape measure around Estinien's waist.

Estinien followed the Roegadyn man into the back room and allowed himself to be manipulated so that Redolent Rose could obtain a significantly more accurate set of his measurements than those provided courtesy of his Lord Commander.

Turning away from him as he hung his tape measure around his neck, Redolent Rose cleared his throat as though he wished to say something to Estinien.

"Yes, Rose? Is there something you..." asked the dragoon.

"I...I just wanted to tell you," the big man interjected, then broke off for a second, his huge shoulders hunching together, tense, as though he were trying to contain some powerful emotion. "I just wanted to say how marvelous I think it is for you and Ser Aymeric to dance together in the Starlight Suite," he admitted, turning around to face Estinien. And indeed, the dragoon noticed, the Roegadyn man's eyes _were_ shining. "Marvelous, I think," continued Rose, "and so very brave."

"Brave?" Estinien snorted. "How is it brave?" he asked.

"You honestly don't know, do you, my friend?" asked Redolent Rose, shaking his head. "Well, perhaps it is because you are so used to pitting yourself against the most over-weening opponents in terms of sheer power, that you are oblivious to the more petty but persistent foes, the more commonplace evils in our world."

"What do you mean?" the dragoon replied, creasing his brow in a frown.

"While Eorzea is, in general, a more accepting place than most -- that's why I choose to live here, after all -- there are still a great many people in this world who cannot abide the idea of people like me," said the big man, sighing, "of people like _us_ , Estinien, men who love men. But by you and Ser Aymeric -- two of the most powerful men in Eorzea, mind you -- displaying your love for each other in such a dynamic, poignant and very _public_ way, you make it easier for all of us to simply live," he continued, a single tear escaping his eye to drip down his handsome face. "Knowing that two of Eorzea's mightiest heroes are, in fact, gay men, queer men -- forgive me, my friend, I know not your preferred term," Rose said glancing down at Estinien's face.

"I hadn't thought to prefer a term," replied Estinien, a somewhat perplexed look on his face, "mostly because I had yet to consider myself as anything other than simply being in love with Aymeric."

"Ah well, forgive me in truth then, Ser Estinien. I spoke out of turn," the tailor said, looking down.

"Estinien, Rose. 'Tis _just_ Estinien," replied the elezen with a bit of a grin.

"Well, let me just finish by saying, then, that knowing you and Ser Aymeric are in love with each other and not ashamed to let all the world know it, enables that world to grow more accepting of the idea," Rose said. "And in fact," the big Roe continued, "it makes _me_ take a good deal of pride in being counted as part of a group represented by both Ishgard's last and most puissant Azure Dragoon and its incomparable Lord of Lords."

"He is indeed incomparable," Estinien answered, his grin turning a tad wistful. "I hadn't thought of any of this, Rose," the dragoon continued, "and I'm uncertain how to answer other than by saying that, while I possess a great deal of shame in regard to my status as a mass murderer of Dravanians -- what I did cannot be called anything _but_ mass murder -- I possess very little in regard to loving another man. Perhaps the greater shame o'ermasters the potential for any other to take hold within my heart. Regardless, I refuse to ever stop loving Aymeric. He is my life," Estinien said simply, shrugging his shoulders, palms facing up in surrender to the idea.

"I have only ever resisted being more public about our love," the dragoon continued, "well, because I myself am resistant to being in the public eye for a moment longer than is necessary, for one. But mostly 'tis because I fear what harm might come to _Aymeric's_ reputation, and thus his power to continue affecting change in Ishgard, if we were to be so obvious with our partnership that the power-base in Ishgard could no longer happily ignore it. Still," he said, "knowing that this public avowal of our commitment gives you a sense of pride, while it does not diminish any shame I feel in regard to my role as the _Wyrmblood_ , ruthless revenger of the Dragonsong War, it does make me feel a little bit proud of being just Estinien, not the former Azure Dragoon, but simply the man.

Redolent Rose smiled then, a smile to match the huge Roegadyn's size, as he clapped Estinien hard against the back with a force that would have sent just about any other elezen flying. "Certainly Eorzea won't know what hit it," he said, "when you and Sir Aymeric take to the stage."

Estinien just stood there, the breath knocked completely from his lungs, considering the idea that whatever effect his and Aymeric's dance had on Eorzea, he certainly hoped the continent and its surrounding islands would be spared a blow like the one he'd just received of Redolent Rose.

  



	5. Divertissement, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Balanchine. The formidable Ballet Master and Co-Founder of The School of American Ballet and New York City Ballet, well, he's certainly the Marid in the room (thanks Nightmist!) in any discussion of American ballet in general and "The Nutcracker" in particular. Yes, he was a genius. And, yes, he was also responsible for untold damage to his ballerinas, both to their minds and bodies. He was also responsible for establishing a viciously misogynistic company culture at NYCB, one that has endured far beyond his death.
> 
> Unfortunately, I cannot really talk about "The Nutcracker" without talking about Balanchine's Nutcracker, because, indeed, if you've seen any production of the ballet here in the States, you've most likely seen Balanchine's version: it was HIS 1954 NYCB production that pretty much MADE Nutcracker the ubiquity that it is around Holiday Time. For confirmation of the fact, take a look at Disney's original "Fantasia," the 1940 animated film. Now that film has an entire sequence animated to the music of Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker Suite." But in the little segue that introduces the section, the conductor refers to "The Nutcracker Ballet" as obscure, as something film-goers were unlikely to have ever seen. So before Balanchine, the plethora of Nutcrackers during the Holidays simply did not exist.
> 
> Eorzea's Starlight Suite, as I describe it shaping up to be here in this chapter, is very much based on the Balanchine version of the ballet, the one he drew from Marius Petipa's original staging. It is truly the most recognizable version for readers, I think. And if Balanchine has one tiny saving grace in terms of the historical evaluation of his character, it IS his Nutcracker, AND his absolute insistence that children, real children, perform in his staging of the ballet. Here, Master Pierrault, a much more admirable Ballet Master in general, echoes Balanchine's insistence, encouraging children to perform in recognition that audience members will draw their own happiness from experiencing kids' collective joy in the Season.

"But Admiral, _pistols_?" Aymeric exclaimed aghast. "You _cannot_ be serious about firing pistols onstage."

"They'll just be blanks, Aymeric. It isn't as if we'll be firing live ammunition," Merlwyb returned, exasperated.

"I had thought castanets were the preferred percussive device for this particular dance," he rejoined, equally vexed.

"Well, if _I'm_ dancing it, with Reyner and Eynzahr and some select members of my former..., well, no matter," she said, looking down for a moment and clearing her throat. "If we are performing our traditional Lominsan jaunt in front of all of Eorzea, _we_ will be doing it while firing pistols!" she slammed her fist down on the table.

Aymeric just threw up his arms in bewildered amazement before clapping one hand over his mouth and shaking his head.

"Wait, wait," interjected Nanamo, laughing as she spoke. "I'm certain Severian from our Alchemist's guild here in Ul'dah can come up with some way of making the pistols bang and smoke without there being the need for _any_ powder whatsoever within their chambers."

"Certainly, a compromise worth considering, friends," urged Kan-E-Senna.

Aymeric nodded, somewhat dazed. "Yes," he said, "That would be more than satisfactory. Thank you, Your Grace."

"'Tis Nanamo, Aymeric, as well you know," replied the Sultana smiling.

Merlwyb just snorted, nodding her head in seeming agreement.

"Though 'tis not Nanamo for the purposes of the Starlight Suite," laughed the Elder Seedsayer, her voice the ripple of rain on water as she steered the conversation anew, "but Clara. Our sweet Clara!"

"How goes it convincing Pepin to play Fritz?" asked Merlwyb.

"Oh, he's agreed...as long as I allow him to be my escort at the various Starlight Balls and parties I will be expected to attend for the remainder of the Holiday Season -- and most certainly not in any context remotely resembling anything fraternal," she said, flushing a pink to nearly match her own hair.

"Hah! I knew it," replied the Admiral, a victorious smirk plastered across her face. "Our little Nanamo is all grown up."

"You are entirely too inclined to tease for someone who keeps her own attachments so carefully guarded," prodded the Seedsayer. "Or what are we supposed to assume from the fact that the Commodore of Limsa Lominsa's Yellowjackets has chosen to accompany the Maelstrom's Admiral to Ul'dah, leaving the City-State bereft of not one, but _two_ of its most vital leaders?"

An expression of nearly abashed surprise crossed the Admiral's features for but a moment before she recovered herself. She and Kan-E-Senna, together on the plains of Carteneau itself, went too far back for there to be anything but complete disclosure between them. "Alright, alright, my friends," the Roe said, "I'll admit it. Reyner's a damned fine man, after all -- _my_ damned fine man, that is."

She laughed heartily at herself and then turned to Aymeric. "Forgive me, my dear Ser Aymeric, for my ruthless teasing," she continued, "you are just too adorable when you're discomfited for me to resist pushing you into such a state." Reaching over to the elezen, she roughly swiped his fringe from his brow, much like his own dear Yvonne was inclined to do, before giving him a quick squeeze on the shoulder and settling back into her place.

"Well then," began the Sultana, shrugging her tiny shoulders as she offered up the suggestion, "shall we discuss the progress we've made in regard to each of our allotted Starlight Suite tasks?"

"The amphitheater is being readied as we speak," started Kan-E-Senna. "Our Carpenter's Guild in Gridania has already removed the fence surrounding the space to allow for more audience seating and an unobstructed view of the performance. In addition, we've removed the seating nearest the stage and the guild is currently building risers to extend the stage itself, providing significantly more space for our dancers," she continued.

"I think I speak for the rest of us when I say I cannot extend enough thanks to Gridania for agreeing to host the performance itself, Elder Seedsayer," Aymeric asserted.

"Well, it makes most sense, really," Merlwyb said. "Gridania is the most centrally located of the City-States and it already has a perfectly adequate performance space, one which the Elder Seedsayer's efforts are adapting beautifully to our specific needs," she paused for a moment, "but, yes, as leader of Limsa Lominsa, I thank you Kan-E-Senna."

"As do I, dear friend," Nanamo chimed in. "And while we in Ul'dah have no venue for such a performance other than perhaps the Blood Sands, which doesn't seem particularly appropriate, what we do have is an abundance of coin. For whatever reason, no doubt some twisted one of his own, Lord Lolorito has agreed to contribute all the money necessary to facilitate travel to the event. The airship passage of each participant, performer or technician, will be paid for by Ul'dah."

"That is a most beneficent contribution indeed, Your Grace," Aymeric said.

"Nanamo, Aymeric," the lalafell reminded him.

"Ah yes, forgive me, Nanamo," he replied, cheeks flushing.

"In addition, Redolent Rose and the Weaver's Guild will be designing and fabricating all the costumes, shoes, slippers, hair-pieces -- anything worn by our dancers. And, again, all of this will be provided for out of Lord Lolorito's personal fortune," said the girl, sighing. "Only Nald and Thal themselves know what he will expect of me in return."

"Whatever it is, you can be assured, Nanamo, that we will stand by thee through it," asserted Kan-E-Senna looking just the tiniest bit fierce, the expression on her face like a flash of Summer lightning still far away.

"Indeed," nodded Aymeric, resolute.

"The casting then," Merlwyb said. "Limsa has the Mice and Soldiers of the First Act covered, though Captain Rhoswen and the Sanguine Sirens insist on being referred to as 'Bilge Rats' in the program, and Captain Carvaillain and the Kraken's Arms absolutely refuse to appear in any sort of headgear other than their traditional naval hats; they do not wish to look like a box of 'tin soldiers,' I think is what Carvaillain said," the Roegadyn woman continued. "Then, of course, I will perform the "Chocolate Dance" with a couple of my close compatriots. Oh, and The Bismark and Limsa Lominsa's Culinarian Guild will be providing a post-performance dinner for the entire cast and crew."

"A generous gesture, indeed, Admiral," said Aymeric, "and one to which I am most looking forward, as I have yet to have the pleasure of dining at the Bismark."

"We shall have to correct that Lord Speaker," said Merlwyb, without the least bit of irony in the pronouncing of his title. "Limsa Lominsa would be pleased to host the leader of Ishgard's New Republic, with or without his _former_ Azure Dragoon. Though I'd prefer 'with,' of course. I'd love to see what Estinien's dragoon jump would make of Limsa's towers, " she finished with a laugh with which the others joined, even Ser Aymeric this time. The Elder Seedsayer spoke next.

"Jehantel," said Kan-E-Senna, her trickling laughter quieting, "the former Godsbow himself, has collected a group of minstrels to serve as our musicians," Kan-E-Senna began, "and Gridania's Society for the Emulation of Elemental-Based Dance will be dancing the large corps numbers, "Snow," and the "Waltz of the Flowers," she continued.

"SEED?" asked Merlwyb, barely containing a fresh burst of mirth.

"SEED," returned the Eder Seedsayer, looking slightly abashed and blushing the shade of Spring's first primrose. "Master Pierrault has already journeyed several times to Old Gridania, both to rehearse his new corps and to advise Master Beatin about alterations to the performance space."

"Indeed he has," asserted Aymeric, "and has returned to Ishgard with nothing but praise for the society and its dancers, if not, perhaps, for its name," he said smirking. The others laughed again. "And speaking of the Ballet Master," Aymeric began, "he has been coaching a beginner's class of Ishgardian children, who will, in fact, serve as the Angels who escort our dear Clara here," he gestured toward Nanamo, "into the Land of Sweets."

"Will they participate at the beginning of the ballet as well, Aymeric," Nanamo asked. "I was under the impression that Master Pierrault wished there to be children from all five City-States dancing in the Party Scene. Indeed, I have even ferreted out an Ala Mhigan brother and sister, children of former refugees settled permanently now in Ul'dah, who are willing to participate."

"Absolutely," nodded the knight. "Master Pierrault was insistent, beyond any other requirement, that there be children in the performance, children from all over Eorzea."

"Well we're bringing an entire crew's worth of the little monsters with us," Merlwyb snorted out, laughing. "Have your Carpentry Master nail down anything of value, Eldar Seedsayer, for a rag-tag bunch of pirate brats shall soon descend upon Old Gridania."

"We shall endure," laughed the Seedsayer. "SEED, of course," started Kan-E-Senna with the slightest roll of her eyes, has children already chosen for the party scene, so Gridania will be represented as well."

"Well then," shrugged Nanamo, " with my two Ala Mhigans, and a few additional participants from Ul'dah, the casting of the First Act seems to be fully accomplished."

"Shall we proceed to the Divertissements of Act 2 then, the Land of Sweets?" asked Aymeric. "We know the Admiral has taken on "Chocolate," but what of the rest?"

"While Ala Mhigo is not in a position to contribute as much as the other City-States, Raubahn assures me they certainly wish to participate in the Starlight Suite," the Sultana started. "And since she is already a master of the style of dance portrayed therein, Lyse Hext herself will represent Ala Mhigo by dancing "Coffee."

"Lyse?" said Aymeric, "how marvelous to have her."

"Gridania misses her," nodded Kan-E-Senna. "The Elementals ever knew her, regardless of the mask behind which she hid."

"And _I've_ been informed by, well, sources, that Mistress Nashmeira and Troupe Falsiam have agreed to dance "Peppermint Sticks," Merlwyb exclaimed. "Since they came to _our_ shores first from Thavnair, I claim them for Limsa."

Nanamo laughed. "It's not a competition, Merlwyb."

The Roe snorted in response before turning to the knight again, a dangerous glint in her eye, "What say you to that, Ser Aymeric? Those spinning weapons of theirs could certainly cause more damage than mere blanks shot from a pistol. Will you not protest?" she asked.

Aymeric was ready this time, however, and answered, nonplussed, "I will not," he said, taking a prim sip from his teacup before setting it gently back in the saucer he held close to his chest. "Troupe Falsiam is not a collection of former brigands and thus should be trusted to show restraint in the handling of their weapons."

Merlwyb just barked out a laugh in response. "As though you show restraint in the _handling_ of _your_ weapons, Lord Commander, especially the dragoon-shaped ones."

Aymeric flushed full red. "Still," he continued, quickly re-directing the conversation, "with what does that leave us... hmm?" Dipping his head to one side to think, Aymeric set down his tea and used the fingers of one hand to count off the still un-claimed dances. "Marzipan, Mother Ginger and, well, Tea, I think," he continued, gesturing ironically toward his own cup.

"Lord Hien has claimed Marzipan for himself, along with Lady Yugiri and her Doman Ninja," Nanamo piped in. "He so wanted Doma to be represented, or so Alisaie informed me when I paid my visit to the Scions at the Rising Stones, that he decided to come himself. Apparently, Hien will be performing a 'drunken' style, dancing as an inebriated samurai waylaid by a band of rogue ninja."

"How appropriate," said Merlwyb, smirking.

"Oh," Nanamo continued, "he has but made the one small request that 'Marzipan' be changed to 'Dango' in the program, and I don't see why we shouldn't allow it; they're similar enough confections," she said, giggling.

"And Mother Ginger?" asked Kan-E-Senna.

"Ah, that is a mystery," answered Aymeric. "Apparently, according to Master Pierrault, the very newest Scion, G'raha Tia is his name, has something special planned for 'Mother Ginger.' He consulted the master about it and Pierrault enthusiastically approved," Aymeric continued, "So we _all_ shall have to wait and see about 'Mother Ginger.'"

"That just leaves 'Tea,' then," said Merlwyb. "And by the way, does anyone want more of it," she continued, gesturing towards the teapot in the center of the room. "I'm parched." Pouring out more tea for both herself and Aymeric, who had indeed desired another cup (when _didn't_ the man want another cuppa), Merlwyb handed the knight his saucer and considered the complications of "Tea." "The traditional staging of the 'Tea' dance has come to be regarded, in the last ten Summers, as a culturally-insensitive caricature, I think," she said.

"Indeed," agreed Aymeric. "I think we must go carefully in our offering, which is I believe why no one has been willing to commit to the "Tea" dance."

"But as it is the very last thing we have left to fill," Merlwyb interjected, "I suppose we can table it for a time and agree to think on it."

"Agreed," said the Elder Seedsayer and both Nanamo and Aymeric nodded. Dropping then into more casual conversation now that their formal business had been completed, the leaders of the Eorzean Alliance chatted for nearly half a bell before scheduling an additional meeting in a moon's time and readying themselves to depart.

"Shall I escort you out, Lord Commander," Admiral Bloefhiswyn said, a bit of an impish smirk about her lips.

"Indeed, I would be grateful for the company as I search out Estinien through this maze of Ul'dahn excess," returned Ser Aymeric.

"I do not think you will have far to search, my friend," returned the Admiral, walking in step with him now. "No," she continued, "I think I know precisely where Ser Estinien can be found -- waiting just outside the door for you, of course," she said with a laugh, clapping Aymeric hard on the back.

Having left the Weaver's Guild, Estinien started on his way back up toward the Hustings Strip, hoping to meet Aymeric. Amazingly, he managed to weave his way, on his return trip to the Fragrant Chamber, through the various courts and halls presented without losing himself too badly. Only once did he have to stop and re-trace his steps. Coming finally into the circle wherein the Chamber of Rule was located, Estinien positioned himself by the Aethernet Shard, arms and head resting on the stonework balustrade as he stared absently into the court below.

"Ser Estinien," said a voice to his left. The elezen looked lazily to his side, not yet bothering to move his head from his arms. He saw a hyur man standing there, a hyur man clad in full naval uniform including a large feathered hat on his head. "Please allow me to introduce myself, Ser," continued this man who Estinien could not remember having ever met before. "I am Commodore Reyner, leader of Limsa Lominsa's Yellowjackets," he said, giving a quick bow followed by a brisk kick of heel against heel and ending in a storm salute. "'Tis a great honor to meet Ishgard's Azure Dragoon."

"Former Azure Dragoon, " corrected Estinien, but there was no true heat in the admonishment.

"Ah, forgive me, Ser Estinien," returned Reyner as the lanky Elezen unwound his long arms from where they were crossed on the balustrade and rose, only to bend himself into a formal bow.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Commodore," said Estinien, standing up now.

"Are you waiting for Ser Aymeric, perhaps," asked the Commodore. "Merl...I mean, the Admiral said their meeting should reach its conclusion around this time, and bade me meet her here at the Shard."

"I am indeed, Commodore..."

"Reyner, please, Ser Estinien," urged the man.

"Estinien, then," said the elezen, returning the sentiment.

"Are you serving as the Lord Speaker's guard here in Ul'dah?" asked the hyur.

"I am," answered Estinien.

"As am I for the Admiral," said Reyner.

"I was under the assumption that the Yellowjackets were Limsa Lominsa's civil defense force. Why is she not accompanied by a military guard," asked the dragoon absently, bringing his thumb to his mouth to chew off a bit of fraying cuticle.

"Ah.." replied Reyner, blushing and lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck nervously.

"Ah," returned Estinien, too familier with the very brand of embarrassment Reyner exhibited to wish inflicting it on another for long. "Me too, you know," he said, shocked at his own forthrightness.

"I _do_ know," said the Commodore, "from Merlwyb. She thinks you and Ser Aymeric are the 'prettiest pair in Eorzea,' by the way. Her words. She says, 'Tis almost as though they were crafted for each other by Halone Herself,'" the man recounted, doing a fair imitation of the brash Roegadyn.

"Oh," said Estinien, not yet prepared to be that forthright, especially with a virtual stranger.

"'Tis not easy, Estinien, is it...to be in love with the Leader of a City-State?" asked the Commodore, sighing.

And it was a good thing indeed that the question was intended to be rhetorical, because Estinien could think of not one word in response to it. He shifted his weight from one foot to another and chewed at his now-bloodied cuticle again.

"Especially," Reyner began again, "when there are all these rumours floating about -- threats, political unrest, charges of hypocrisy in the Admiral's case and heresy in Lord Aymeric's."

"Rumours?" asked Estinien. "What rumours?" the dragoon repeated, his body immediately snapping tense, ready to spring down upon the thousands of shadows he suddenly imagined poised in Aymeric's peripherals.

"You hadn't heard?" asked Reyner, legitimately surprised. "I know for a fact Merlwyb sent intelligence regarding the threat posed to _all_ the leaders of the Eorzean Alliance, but _particularly_ to Ser Aymeric, by their being gathered at the performance of the Starlight Suite."

"Why _particularly_ against Ser Aymeric?" asked Estinien, his eyes slits.

"Ah, you had not heard then," said the Commodore, the measure of his bravery certainly taken by his withstanding Estinien's burning gaze. "There's been some chatter along intelligence channels regarding a particularly militant Halonic sect, 'The Sightless,' who refute the revealed truth about the origins of the Dragonsong war, and regard Ser Aymeric as a heretic, a patricide and a most... a most unnatural..." Reyner swallowed and broke off. He looked down to the ground.

"A most unnatural what, Commodore," asked the dragoon, his voice a dangerous purr.

"'Tis their word, not mine, Estinien."

"And what word would that be?"

"Sodomite," said the hyur finally. "A most unnatural sodomite."

Estinien shook with fury, though not yet with The Most Righteous Fury poised behind his lance as it drove into the throat of any who chose to use that word against Aymeric. _He_ could accept it, even _revel_ in his mantling of the word about himself as a stab in the dragon's eye to rigid, repressed Ishgard -- or he once could, once upon a time, before...everything. But he would never allow such a slur to be applied to Aymeric.

"Are you well, Ser Estinien?" asked Reyner, a hand reaching out to comfort the dragoon, obvious concern in his eyes.

"Reyner!" a voice shouted to him, and the man stopped short of actually touching the elezen (probably for the best), and turned to face the approaching Admiral. Ishgard's Lord Commander strode beside her. "How are you, man?" Merlwyb asked, giving him an affectionate though somewhat jarring shake to his shoulder. "Well, we're off to the Airship," she continued, righting the Commodore's hat back from whence she had knocked it ajar on his head. "In one moon's time then, Aymeric," the Admiral said, nodding. "You too, dragoon!"

"Admiral," Estinien returned, hands still fisted at his sides, still looking at the ground as Merlwyb whisked Reyner away before he had the chance to take proper leave of the elezen.

"Estinien," said Aymeric, coming up beside him. "Is aught amiss, Estinien?" he asked, reaching out a hand to place on the dragoon's forearm, trying to turn his lover to face him. Estinien resisted.

"Why did you not tell me, Aymeric?" he choked out, head still down, body still trembling with rage. "About the death threats? 'The Sightless?'"

"Estinien," Aymeric said, his voice dropping to sooth. "I simply did not wish to be the cause of any increased fretfulness on your part, my dear. Especially since it was but recently that you had managed to shed the legacies of your draconic possession. As much as I find your aetherial appendages beautiful, I know they make you uncomfortable."

"You are correct, Aymeric; they do make me uncomfortable. Especially the new ones," Estinien said, finally looking up and turning to face Aymeric fully.

"New ones...." the knight started and then stopped, his eyes wide. The horns were starting to bubble up in a swirl of boiling red aether on either side of Estinien's brow, and Aymeric could see a wave of aether sweep lazily back and forth behind his dragoon, a suggestion that the tail was returning. But neither of those two observations were what stunned him into place. 'Twas the blood that stopped him, the two long lines of blood that trickled down either side of Estinien's chin from where a set sharp-pointed fangs poked over his bottom lip to pierce it.

\----------------------------------------------------

"Lord Lolorito," said the elezen man, bowing and raising his monk's hood to obscure his features once again, before he turned to leave the most secret of the underground chambers in Lolorito's compound. The lalafell watched as the Halonic monk departed, seeming to glide above the floor as he was escorted out by the guards, as though his feet were indeed granted the Fury's flight, allowing them to float just above the earth, avoiding an ever-imminent befouling.

This had all gotten out of hand, and quickly too. And while it was true republics were bad for business, bad for profit, he had never meant for it to go this far. Ala Mhigo's New Republic wasn't much of a threat, really. War-weakened and young, it was still entirely incapable of asserting itself within the Alliance itself, of wielding any degree of political influence. But Ishgard...well, Ishgard was far more dangerous, had been far too compelling a threat.

Lolorito knew where Nanamo's true intentions resided, where her heart was, and he knew it was set to driving Ul'dah itself into joining the ranks of republics included within the Eorzean Alliance. Ser Aymeric de Borel was a good man, too good really. As supremely competent a statesman as he was a warrior, he was the consummate leader. Always at the van of his knights in any engagement, always on the side of the very least member of his citizenry, his was a seductive example indeed of everything to which a head of state could aspire.

He was also the lynchpin of the Ishgardian Republic's stability. Draw it out completely and Ishgard would surely crumble, which was a potentiality that Lolorito certainly did _not_ wish for. He did not want instabilty; that was bad for business too, and the damage to the Alliance assuredly resultant from a completely dismantled Ishgard would be profit-killing indeed. But a slightly de-stabilized northern republic, something showing Nanamo that even the most competent and earnest leader was not entirely capable of always steering the course aright -- that change was not as easy as Ser Aymeric made it look -- was desirable indeed. 

He had never meant to pull out the pin entirely, just pick at it a bit. And the way to pick at the Lord Commander, to make Aymeric's steady hand on the reins of Ishgard shake a bit, was surely to prod at the man's one obvious weakness: his erratic, infamous, and supremely martially adept former Azure Dragoon, a man the Lord Viscount de Borel -- who himself always seemed to be calculating the slip between "words, deeds, and beliefs" in order to deduce precisely how much effort would produce the most benefit -- had somehow made the grave miscalculation of choosing as his beloved.

Picking at the status of their relationship as two men in love within the context of a severely sexually repressive society, and thus casting some small aspersions against Aymeric's character by making it impossible for Ishgard to continue gamely trying to ignore the fact that he had honest-to-gods flesh and blood and _other_ fluids sex with Estinien Wyrmblood, had been Lolorito's true aim. So when he had heard that the man was insisting on dancing in this ridiculous Starlight Suite business, and not just dancing, but dancing a pas de deux with his _male_ lover, Lolorito was all for it.

Certainly de Borel was making a political misstep, something he was unlikely to do again anytime soon, and the lalafell lord would surely take advantage of the fact. So he funded the damned thing, poured money into the Starlight Suite in order to assure that the performance actually _happened_. At the same time, he had engaged the "The Sightless," hoping their presence in Ishgard, stirring up the rumours again about Aymeric's birth, his potential heresy and patricide, his sexuality, would pick at the man a bit, shake him up.

He had not realized the depth of the cult's fanaticism, had not realized they intended to try and kill Ser Aymeric, had not realized that they were even capable enough to achieve such an outcome. But they were, he had come to find out. They most certainly _were_ capable of assassinating Ser Aymeric de Borel right underneath the gaze of both his powerful lover and, indeed, all of Eorzea.

So what could he do now to stop it? Plans were set in motion, funded by him, of course, but of which he had no knowledge. All the knowledge he _did have_ he pumped into the intelligence channels, making certain the leaders of the Alliance were aware that there was an imminent threat to Aymeric. But "The Sightless" kept themselves close. Already Lolorito knew they suspected him of disloyalty. He could not be certain that the information they passed him was not entirely misdirection.

So he waited. He waited and resolved to hire a battalion of slinking Lominsan rogues and skulking Doman ninja to dog the Lord Commander's steps, watching for movement against him and guarding him constantly from their position amongst the shadows. Hopefully it would be enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something weird happened when I tried to post this initially, so my daughter just deleted the chapter and reposted it for me because I am inept. If we accidentally deleted any comments, I am truly sorry about that. I really still don't know what I'm doing.


	6. The Wind-Up Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section is weird, I know. But if you happen to like this kind of philosophy, I recommend taking a look at a 2012 documentary called “A Pervert’s Guide to Ideology,” featuring Slovenian philosopher Slavoj Zizek, truly Lacan’s epistemological heir and highly influenced by Foucault as well. I think it’s still available on Prime.
> 
> The “two sets of cheeks” thing is something my daughter announced to a nearby banquet table of complete strangers when she was just three years old. One of those feasting strangers happened to be the owner of the restaurant at which we were eating and he was so delighted by her commentary, we all ate for free that evening.
> 
> Thanks very much to Nightmist and thesparklingone for use of their chocobos here (and I very much wish Sunlight a speedy recovery)!!! I’m pretty certain no chocobos were harmed in the writing of this story -- decentered maybe, and decentering, but not harmed, I don’t think.

Urianger Augurelt tilted his head to one side and placed a finger curling in front of his lips, hand cupping his chin, as he considered the scholar's supposition.

"Pray, 'tis the **signifier** , then, the word itself?" he asked, "and the **signified** the idea that the word, the **signifier** , represents?

"Indeed you are correct, Archon Augerelt," nodded the particularly tall elezen with the mirthful, shining eyes behind his square-framed spectacles and equally shining completely shorn head.

"And the **referent** is the thing itself," added the man beside him, an elderly elezen with bushy hair to match the set of bushy eyebrows scrunched o'er-top eyes peering steadily from behind oval-shaped lenses. "The thing one can touch and taste and feel."

"The real thing then?" asked Artoirel de Fortemps from his place across the café table.

"Nay, nay, my dear Count," answered the bushy-haired elezen with a bit of a frown. " **The Real** is functionally unimportant. A child can no longer access it when he passes through the **The Mirror Stage** , when by being held up to a mirror in front of his mother, he recognizes that he is, indeed, something separate from her. Desiring then to hold her gaze, to draw her gaze towards him as a separate, self-contained entity, he chooses to access **The Symbolic** ; he chooses to enter language."

Urianger looked puzzled and plucked at his beard a bit. "Alas, mine most esteemed Doctors of Philosphy, returned as thou art to thy native environs now that Lord Aymeric hath made these streets more amenable to thee, I regret that 'tis but a poor reception I find myself capable of extending to thee. Mine own mind, which hath yet to fail me so completely in erudition..."

"More matter, less art, my dear friend," said a soft, low voice from across the table, its admonishment of the elezen's famed loquacity gentle. Urianger smiled then, a touch of red colouring his ears as he acknowledged his friend's fond chiding. "Perhaps the 'chocobo' example, Dr. Lacan," suggested the voice.

"Ah! The 'chocobo' example; what a splendid idea, Bloom!" said the bald elezen, gesticulating his enthusiasm with his arms. 

Urianger turned then to look fully at the woman from whom that soft voice issued and he let out a heavy sigh despite himself. Bloom Rising, Hydalyn's Chosen, Scion, mother of the tiniest House de Fortemps lordling, was sitting curled in on herself, elbows on knees, chin in hand, trying desperately to diminish herself, to make herself as small as possible; it was not an insignificant task for someone seven fulms tall -- and that was without even counting the massive, arching voidkin horns sprouting from either side of her head. 

Slouching on one elbow onto the café table, Bloom wrapped her large hand around what was, in comparison, a ridiculously small espresso cup and lifted it to sip. She drained the small cup in one draught and sank further onto that elbow propped on the table, tapping thoughtfully at her lips with one sharpened, ilms-long nail -- both lips and nails painted even darker than her natural night-black skin with the waxy black lipstick and dark red polish she unfailingly applied. Catching Urianger looking at her, she returned a small smile and withdrew from the table again, wrapping her arms snugly around her chest, trying to curl-in to herself even more tightly. 

"You start it then, Foucault, since the idea excites you so," said the bushy-browed elezen to the bald one, and Urianger snapped his attention away from Bloom and back to the discussion at hand.

"First," said the smiling man, "think simply of the word itself, _chocobo_ . That is what we call the **signifier** , the collection of phonemes, both consonant and vowel sounds, that come together to make up the word itself," the elezen continued. "Then, consider the _idea_ that the word, the **signifier** , introduces into your mind. Consider it, Master Augerelt!" he enthused. "Consider it, Count de Fortemps!"

Urianger wanted nothing less, considering his recent history with the birds, than to think about chocobos. Riding chocobo-back brought to mind only his need to be rescued from the wind-swept drifts of a Coerthan blizzard, a rescue affected by no less than the two most prominent men in Ishgard, Aymeric de Borel and Estinien Wyrmblood. The thought of chocobos themselves brought only an image of a nervous, skittering bird and the smell of her shite.

"The _idea_ connoted by the word _chocobo_ , that picture that forms in your mind when the word is uttered or you read it on the page, that is the **signified** ," effused the bald man. 

"And the thing that stands on two scaly legs in the stables and goes 'kweh,'" interjected the bushy-haired man, "that is what we call the **referent**. Together the **signifier** and **signified** comprise **The Sign**."

"But how is this... what you call the **referent** , not real," asked the Artoirel. "How is not the feather and blood bird squawking in his stall the _real_ thing?"

"There is no _real_ outside of **The Symbolic** ," shouted the bushy-browed man, Dr. Jaques Lacan, as he smacked his fist down on the café table in a display of his well-documented temper.

"What my esteemed colleague means to say, Count de Fortemps," said the other man, the incomparable Dr. Michel Foucault, "is that while there _is_ indeed a two-legged thing squawking in its stables, we cannot perceive of it as such -- cannot convey its existence to our minds -- without doing so through the medium of language. Language makes meaning, and, thus, reality," continued perhaps the most important living philosopher in Eorzea.

"Medium of language!" spit out Lacan, clearly offended. "There is no medium! **The Symbolic** is reality, and the only reality we can _ever_ come to know!" He banged the table again, causing his own espresso to tip over in its saucer.

Foucault simply let out a low chuckle and put out both hands to suggest that the more volatile philosopher calm himself. "Let me ask you this, then, friends. Count de Fortemps. Archon Augerelt," he continued, nodding to the men in turn. "What do you think of when I say the word, _chocobo_? What precisely is the bird you imagine?"

"Black feathers," said Artoirel, without thinking, " and my brother...my late brother, that is," he continued, choking up a bit. He stopped and cleared his throat. "I think of Haurchefant, always in the stables amongst his beloved birds, covered head to toe in black feathers."

"Not a bird at all then, Count, but something else, as is so often the way of it. And you, Archon?" gently prodded the philosopher.

"A young bird, feathered yellow and skittish," replied Urianger.

"Not at all the same, are they my friends," Foucault continued with a laugh. "And therein lies the rub. Professor Lacan here suggests a rationalistic approach to reality here, particularly a psychoanalytic rationalism: there is no _real_ world outside one's own head, outside of one's own immersion in **The Symbolic** . There's objective outside stimulus of course, but we cannot perceive of it as such without resort to some kind of language, some set of symbols and signifiers. So reality is then, for us, the interaction between outside stimulus and the collection of **signifiers** and their **signifieds** , the collection of **signs** , we carry around in our heads."

"Our _selves_ themselves, our _subjectivities_ , our _identities_ , are nothing more than this collection of **signifiers** and **signifieds** that we _are_!" insisted Lacan. "'We' are nothing _but_ **signs**!"

"Yes, yes, my friend," continued Foucault, "no one is contesting that at the moment."

"But what of this difference betwixt the idea of the _chocobo_ that resideth in mine own mind and that which filleth the Count's? Surely the word is the same for us both, but the idea of the bird sorts askew once the **signifier** , the word itself, is uttered and thus dispersed amongst various listeners," Urianger hazarded.

"Observant as ever, Urianger," answered the soft voice of Bloom Rising, much to the archon's surprise; she was never one to talk much in company. "Therein lies the true complexity of the idea," she continued. Pausing for a moment, her lips tilted downwards in a slight thoughtful frown; she sunk her chin back in her hand before continuing. "I'm certain you recall Alphinaud discussing, when he first met Ser Aymeric, how adept the Lord Commander was at navigating the gaps between "words, deeds, and beliefs," and how he both admired and was daunted by this ability to sort word from action from intention," she said.

"Indeed, I doth recall Mistress Alisaie conveying something to that effect," replied the elezen.

"Well simply focus that idea, about the various layers of meaning involved in interactions between separate subjectivities -- separate people -- when both 'deeds' and 'beliefs' are also involved, and consider only the 'words,'" continued Bloom Rising. "Language is a slippery thing," she said. "Consider how truly difficult is clear communication when the same word elicits such vastly different pictures in different minds -- and that's without even 'deeds' or 'beliefs' involved."

"And it changes," interjected Foucault. "The set of **signifiers** and **signifieds** we carry around in our heads, that which Professor Lacan asserts is the very core of our selves, is in fact a shifting, slippery core, and, thus, hardly a core at all. We are all **Decentered Selves** ," continued the philosopher, "a collection of **signs** , of **signifiers** and **signifieds** , symbols and meanings, that shift and slip as we brush up against new experiences."

"Hmmph," grumped the psychoanalyst, "well spoken, Foucault."

"One more point, and then we shall adjourn for the time-being," continued the smiling, bald elezen. "I know you have many commitments to which you must attend, Count de Fortemps."

Artoirel nodded. "True though that may be, I find none nearly as fascinating as these continued conversations of ours, Professor....Professors," he added, nodding again at the irascible Lacan.

"Consider, then, how quickly the **decentered self** slips and shifts and changes," Foucault began. "Once upon some frigidly cold Ishgardian evening, you might hear a story recounted 'round the fire, an exquisitely dark gothic romance, wherein two lovers escape into the night on a pair of chocobos named for the light of paired celestial bodies. And 'tis such a lovely story, those two chocobos stay in your mind forever after, subtly altering the picture that comes to mind, **the signified** , when you hear the word _chocobo_ , the **signifier**." He paused for a moment, to allow his listeners to consider the example. "Then consider you pick up a quill yourself," the philosopher resumed, "and you yourself write a story, a story about walking... and talking... and love."

"Ah, I know that story," said Bloom Rising in her soft voice. "It made me cry when I read it."

"Me too," effused the philospher, laughing. "And consider, then, that this lovely, tear-inducing story contains yet another example of a chocobo, a giant pink chocobo named for a type of wine-producing grape. Well, you yourself, as the writer of such a story have introduced yet another image, another **signified** , into the endlessly circulating stream of ideas attached to the word _chocobo_ , the **signifier** . You have made a new **sign**."

"And that is the story of the **decentered self** ," interjected Lacan, smiling for the first time that morning. "Our very _selves_ are always already and always _only_ a collection of **signs** , of circulating **signifiers** and **signifieds**. 'Tis a cycle of symbol and meaning from which we take and to which we contribute, a shifting and a slipping that comprises subjectivity and constructs the reality which subjectivity engages."

"And also, my friends, 'tis at least an _introduction_ to **Semiotics** , the theory of **Signs** ," continued Foucault, "an understanding of which is essential to fully appreciating some of our later, more epistemologically complex work." He gave a short bow of his torso over the table, laughing all the while, as Urianger, Artoirel and Bloom clapped.

"I so look forward to our continued conversation, gentlemen," Artoirel said, rising from his seat and making a formal bow to the pair of philosophers. "And, rest assured, you have my full support and thus, the full support of House de Fortemps, both conceptually and financially, in your continued restructuring of the scholasticate into something more akin to a modern university," he continued. "Now, as I have some business at Our Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly to which I must attend, might I escort you gentlemen to Saint Reymanaud's Cathedral before I proceed to the Foundation?"

"We would be most obliged for the company, Count," returned the smiling Foucault. Lacan just snorted his assent.

"Splendid," said Artoirel before turning to Urianger and Bloom. "I shall see you both this evening then, back at the manor -- after your rehearsal with Master Pierrault." 

"Indeed," returned Urianger. Bloom nodded.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Archon," Foucault said to Urianger, who also made a formal bow to the philsopher.

"The pleasure 'twas mine own," returned the golden-eyed elezen.

"Take care, my little Blooming," the philosopher said to Bloom, and even Lacan gave the woman a small half-smile and nod before they both turned and departed with the Count de Fortemps.

Bloom sighed.

"Is aught amiss, my dear friend?" Urianger asked her. "Shall _I_ escort _thee_ past Fortemps Manor before we ourselves make our way to the Congregation?" he asked, holding out his arm for her to take.

"Hmm," said Bloom, nodding, as she slipped her arm through the elezen's and they started to walk slowly toward the Last Vigil. "I wonder, Urianger."

"Dost thou? And about what?" he asked.

"What they said, the philosophers..." she trailed off, looking into the distance as they approached Fortemps manor. "Can you see them, Urianger. The way they run, back and forth, skimming and skittering about and between Aethernet shards," she continued, her far-seeing eyes becoming unfocused.

"To whom art thou referring," asked Urianger, looking around. They were alone, as far as he could tell, except for the presence of the House de Fortemps knights who guarded the manor.

"See, over there...over by the Shard, Urianger. There's a Miqo'te with a two-handed sword and an Au Ra with rose-pink eyes," Bloom said, directing the elezen's gaze with her pointed finger. He could see no one. "And just there, Urianger. Do you see him, the elezen standing by the door to Fortemps Manor, the one with the long ginger hair?"

Urianger closed his eyes tight, not wanting to drop Bloom's arm to rub them. Then he slowly opened them again. There was still no one standing by Fortemps Manor's entrance.

"I know him, Urianger. Though I've never seen him, never met him and never will -- I _can_ never meet him truly -- I know him very well. His name is Wicked Speed and he's the Warrior of Light," she said, her gaze still so far away.

"But Bloom _thou_ art..." Urianger stopped; he knew how much his friend detested being called Warrior of Light. She never, ever used the term herself, preferring Hydalyn's Chosen or just the Chosen if absolutely pressed. And he knew she didn't like _those_ much either.

"It's just like what the philosophers said in a way," she continued. "The Warrior of Light: _one_ self, _one_ subjectivity, _one_ identity, but made up of so many, so very many shifting and slipping signs," she said before pausing again for a moment. "And you know what hurts the most, Urianger?" the painfully lovely, night-skinned, silver-haired woman asked, suddenly turning to face the elezen, eyes focused now but filled with tears. "For him," she said pointing to the man Urianger could not see, "for Wicked Speed, Warrior of Light -- when _he_ walks in through those manor doors, Haurchefant will be there waiting."

"Bloom!" Urianger said. "What can I do for thee? How might I soothe thy hurts, my friend?" he asked.

"I cannot go in there right now. I just can't," answered the woman. " _He's_ in there...always, always _there_ , but I can never again _see_ him." She sighed heavily, an exhalation that initiated a silent, steady weeping.

"Might I fetch thee something from yon manor?" Urianger asked, growing himself more frantic in his desire to somehow comfort the woman.

"There's a bag of my things, on the bed in my chambers," she choked out in a whisper. "Would you mind, Urianger..."

"With all haste," he said, letting go of her arm. He realized then, looking down at the deep indentations of his fingers still pressed into her skin, that he had unknowingly held her more closely than was, ironically, comfortable in his desperate attempt to convey comfort. The realization made him even more frantic. "I shall be but a moment," he said to Bloom's bowed head. She gave a slight nod in answer.

When Urianger returned from inside the literal House de Fortemps, clutching both Bloom's things and the ornate key he'd crafted himself for her Clockwork Doll costume, he immediately panicked. She was nowhere to be seen. Taking a deep breath, he glanced around the area again and was in no way relieved to see her sitting on the dais of stone at the southernmost edge of the Vigil, where the city dropped off into the abyss. Approaching, he realized she was perched on that edge, legs dangling into nothingness.

"Bloom!" he cried out.

"No need to fret, my friend," she answered without turning around. "I couldn't fling myself off if I wanted to. It won't let me," she continued. 

"Bloom," he soothed, going down on one knee and resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. He could feel a sobbing shudder and then... a slowly drawn-in breath. 

"I do _not_ , in fact, wish to fling myself off, not anymore anyway," she said, pulling her legs from the air and drawing her knees to her chest. "I have Glowing to look after. As many fathers as he has, and I can number at least five," she said raising her left hand to count off five fingers on her right, "he still needs his mother," she finished, clasping arms 'round her calves and resting her chin on her knees. "But I'm being selfish, Urianger," she continued, "always moping...talking only about myself. What of you, my friend? How goes it with Master Pierrault?"

Urianger reeled inside, the sudden turn of conversation from one vexing topic to another leaving him momentarily speechless. He filled up that moment with thought. In fact, 'it' did not go at all with Master Pierrault, his apparent paternal grandfather. No, it was not 'apparent;' the man had provided enough documentation, Sharlyan documentation e'en, for the designation to be in any doubt. The Ballet Master was most certainly his grandfather. And Urianger was avoiding him as much as was possible -- not an easy task considering he had agreed to take part in the Starlight Suite. Still, the man had the grace not to press. As desperately hopeful as were his eyes when he rehearsed Urianger as Drosselmeyer, he had yet to again mention their connection. 

As much as he could avoid the man, however, he could do nothing to avoid the thought of him. Having grown close to Bloom in the First, well, close as she ever allowed anyone since Haurchefant, he had sought some degree of relief by confiding in her.

"I fear it 'goeth' not," he admitted.

"You avoid him then, still?" Bloom nudged him.

"It be not him, precisely, that I wish to avoid if I think upon it truly, but the thought of that which he cannot possibly avoid, what he doth not wish to avoid, if I did indeed succumb to the exchange," Urianger tried to explain. "Enough ambivalence doth I possess in regard to the father I know to desire an account of one I will ne'er know. I wish _not_ to know my true father, _not_ to know what I hath ne'er before knew lost."

"Ah," Bloom said. "I understand," she continued, pausing a moment to think. "Ser Aymeric would perhaps understand more fully," she suggested, giving the elezen a meaningful look.

"The Lord Speaker?" asked Urianger. "I fear I lack a familiarity that would invite such a discussion with the Lord Viscount de Borel. He hath saved my life and thus, my debt to him is ever-owing, ne'er to be wholly satisfied, but... "

"Mayhap you might start by 'knowing' who you are 'owing,' Bloom interjected, a slight teasing lilt in her voice. "He's a very sweet man, Urianger," Bloom said, her lips curving to hint a smile. "And despite Alphinaud's account of his nigh predatory political acumen being absolutely correct, I know he would invite such a conversation with one who shared similar vulnerabilities in regard to the nature of his conception. And he would never abuse a confidence, Urianger, unlike his beloved, perhaps," Bloom said, that hint of smile growing to a true grin of affection; it lit up her face for a moment. "You may trust him completely with the deepest secret you own; this I know for certain," she finished.

Urianger stopped and looked at her. That was the longest string of words he had heard her deliver in conversation, not explanation or instruction, in quite some time. Now, he knew Aymeric de Borel was an exceptional man, exceptionally clever and extraordinarily beautiful, but if he provoked such an effusive profligacy of language from the laconic Bloom Rising, he must truly be exceptional indeed.

"Come, Urianger," Bloom continued, "we're expected at the Congregation in but a bell's time. At least come greet the man. He and Estinien have Glowing for the day. Mayhap a miscalculation on my part; Ser Aymeric is ever prone to spoiling his godsson." She stood then, and Urianger followed, slipping his arm again through hers as they walked toward Foundation.

  
  


"Fly me, Stinyan! Fly me!" sang the child, still gripped clinging tight around Estinien's left leg, obstreperously determined to wear the towering elezen into submission by continually beating him about the knee with a toddler-sized wooden replica of Aymeric's own Naegling.

"Why in all the seven bloody hells did you buy this thing for him, Aymeric?" asked Estinien, gesturing toward the toy sword with one hand as he shuffled slowly across the studio floor, child still attached to the leg he was dragging, over toward the dark-haired elezen. "It stings!" he continued, glaring at his lord.

"Make him fly me, Emric! Make Stinyan fly me!" the boy demanded, suddenly hauling back his shaggy head of pale blue hair and lurching forward to sink his teeth into the thin skin just above Estinien's left knee.

"Aaaah," cried out the dragoon, kicking out his leg reflexively with a force strong enough to send the child flying backwards into the air. Both men darted forward, panicking, to try and arrest the child's progress, first several yalms through the air and then several more sliding on his back across the smooth wooden floor.

"Glowing!" called out Aymeric rushing to the child's side.

"He _bit_ me, Aymeric. It was a reflex... I couldn't help..."

Before Estinien could finish his sentence, before Aymeric could even kneel by the child's side, the sturdy half-elezen, half-roegadyn child popped up from the floor undaunted and rushed Estinien, launching himself at the elezen's torso to cling tight with both arms and legs.

"Fly me again, Stinyan!" Lord Glowing Greystone de Fortemps cried out, resuming his miniature Naegling's attack, but this time on what he could reach of Estinien's head.

"Help," murmured the beleaguered dragoon, bringing up his hands to block the wooden sword from connecting with his lips.

As Aymeric drew up to Estinien, reaching out to gently pluck the child from his lover's body, Glowing simply released the dragoon of his own accord, dropped down to the floor and proceeded to run giant rings around the circumference of the studio, cackling wildly and swinging his sword.

"How many Sohm Al Tarts did you feed him?" Estinien asked, clearly harried.

"Umm," Aymeric returned, tilting his head to one side and scratching at his temple, a sheepish expression spreading across his face.

The child finished his circles of the room, then, and ran up behind Estinien to slap the flat of his sword hard against the dragoon's muscled rump.

"Ouch!" Estinien yelped.

"Cheek, Glowing," Aymeric clucked mildly at the child in an utterly ineffective attempt at admonishment. "Take care with the cheek, my boy."

"Cheek!" yelled the boy, taking yet another rushing circuit of the studio. "Cheek!" Glowing stopped short directly in front of Aymeric and dropped his sword to his side. It made a clattering sound on the wooden floor. Looking up at the knight, a serious wide-eyed expression on his face, he said in apparent earnestness: "We have two sets of cheeks. Did you know, Emric? Two sets. Here," he said, reaching up to his face to pinch a chubby silver-skinned cheek in each hand. "And here," he said, reaching behind to place both hands on his own rump.

"Indeed," said Aymeric, nodding slowly at the child. "Indeed we do, Glowing."

"Mama kisses me on these cheeks," Glowing continued, pulling at his face now, stretching his cheeks as far as they would go and looking past Aymeric to waggle his tongue out at himself in the mirrored wall of the studio."

"Don't, Glowing," Aymeric said gently, "your face will stay that way," he continued, nodding confidentially to the child.

"But she doesn't kiss me on these," he said, placing his hands back on his bottom. "You kiss Stinyan on these cheeks," said the child, rubbing the cheeks of his face again, "even though they're scratchy. Stinyan has scratchy cheeks, doesn't he Emric?"

"Indeed he does, Glowing."

"Yours are smooth though, Emric," the child continued, reaching up his little hand toward the dark-haired elezen. Aymeric took the cue and dropped to one knee so Glowing could pass his chubby little hand across the knight's smooth cheek.

"I take care to groom myself properly, love, unlike our Stinyan over there," Aymeric continued.

"Hey!" Estinien interjected. 

"You kiss him on these cheeks," the child said again, pointing to his face, "and on the lips too. I've seen you."

Aymeric nodded. He, indeed, had not refrained from showing Estinien an appropriate amount of affection in front of his godsson.

"Do you kiss him on these cheeks too, Emric? Do you kiss Stinyan on these cheeks?" asked the child, moving his hands back to his rump.

Estinien suddenly folded himself in half in a loud fit of coughing. "What?" he choked out, gasping for breath.

Aymeric considered his options as the child continued to stare at him with those same Fortemps-blue eyes of his father. Unlike Haurchefant, however, who would have cherished the degree of embarrassment such an inquiry inflicted upon his friends, particularly on Estinien, there was no hint of a puckish mirth in the clear blue of the child's gaze. Glowing was in earnest, and though Aymeric had, in fact, never thought to kiss Estinien on his nether cheeks, he did not wish to say anything that might cause the child to associate shame with any act of love he might contemplate in the far-off future. "I..." he began.

The child's eyes grew wide as the saucers in the replica Borel tea sets that had become such popular sellers in the Crozier as of late. He again looked past Aymeric to the wall of mirrors behind him. "Mama!" the child cried. 

Somewhere a bell rang, and in the process of an angel receiving her wings, Aymeric got his reprieve.

"Bloom," Aymeric said, as Glowing raced to scrabble up his mother's long legs into her waiting arms.

"Estinien," said the Roegadyn woman, "are you well?" She heaved the child onto her right hip, one arm still holding him in position, and used her free hand to gently touch the still doubled-over and red-faced dragoon on the shoulder.

"I am fine," Estinien mumbled in return, straightening.

"Has Glowing been a menace, reducing Estinien to such a state?" the woman asked, turning to the Lord Commander, her eyes narrowing slightly. “You really must say 'no' to him on occasion, Aymeric. You spoil him."

"I want it. I want it. I dropped my sword, Mama," said the child, wriggling now on her hip, reaching toward where his toy lay on the floor.

Urianger bent down to retrieve it and placed the sword back in the child's grasping hands. Then, knowing better even at only three Summer's old than to try any nonsense with his mother, Glowing simply cradled his Naegling up against his chest, snuggling it as if it were a soft toy, and rested his head against Bloom's chest. He stuck a thumb in his mouth and started to blearily blink his eyes.

In response, Aymeric came up to the child and gently ruffled his hand through Glowing's pale blue hair. "I cannot seem to help myself, Bloom. He is my godsson after all, and..." he stopped for a moment, his eyes growing pained, "he is _so_ like his father." Pausing to take a breath, Aymeric then turned toward the Archon to offer a greeting. "Good to see you again, Archon Augerelt," he said, taking one of Urianger's hands between his own and squeezing it warmly, as was his standard greeting with someone who might not invite the closeness of an embrace or kiss to the cheek, but was beyond the formality of a mere bow. Having saved him from certain death, Aymeric was inclined to think of Urianger as, if not yet a friend, something more than a mere acquaintance.

"Call him Urianger, Aymeric," Bloom told the knight, and Aymeric caught the other elezen's golden eyes for a moment, confirming permission; the Archon gave a quick nod of his chin.

"Urianger, then," said Aymeric, smiling brightly, and even the most staid and erudite of the Scions could not help but be a touch spellbound by the sight. "Might you need us to take him while you and Urianger rehearse, Bloom?" he asked, gesturing toward the toddler.

"What?" broke in the still somewhat beleaguered dragoon.

"I think Estinien has had enough of fatherhood for one day," Bloom said, very nearly laughing, "and Glowing's worn out, it seems. I think he'll take a nap," she continued, pointing with her chin toward her blinking child.

"I think they've worn each other out," Aymeric replied, going over to circle an arm around Estinien's waist. He pulled the dragoon close to place a kiss on his still sweat-stained temple.

"Aymeric," Bloom said, "before you go, I was wondering if you and Estinien might meet us tomorrow for lunch? There's a newly-opened café near the Jeweled Crozier that Urianger and I favour."

"I don't see why we couldn't, " Aymeric said. "Estinien?" he asked.

"We need to eat," Estinien shrugged. 

"Wonderful, then. It's a date," Bloom said.

"Tomorrow then," said the knight. He smiled again, "Urianger," he said nodding farewell.

"I look forward to meeting with thee and thine own on the 'morrow," confirmed the archon with a quick bow.

Estinien just shook his head at the man, looking somewhat perplexed. "Urianger," he nodded. "Bloom," he said, glancing at her for a moment, before turning to leave the studio. 

Aymeric slipped over close once more to brush his hand softly across Glowing's brow, pushing the child's fringe from his eyes. "Out then in earnest," he said, beaming fondly at the now-sleeping boy.

"Probably the sugar crash resultant from all the sweets you've fed him," Bloom said, smiling a little. "I see all that maple sugar residue crusted at the corners of his mouth, Ser Knight."

Aymeric looked a bit sheepish again as, with a small wave, he turned to follow Estinien. "Tomorrow," he said again and left.

Urianger looked after him for moment's time, considering Bloom's proposition, before turning back to the woman herself. "Master Pierrault arriveth anon," said the archon. "Shall we, then?"

Bloom nodded, stripped off the layers covering her rehearsal-wear and piled them into a little nest in the corner of the studio. She nestled her sleeping child upon them.

"Here," said the golden-eyed elezen, "to cover him." He handed Bloom his own fur-lined cloak. Having grown used to the desert climate of the Waking Sands, Urianger found himself vulnerable to the biting cold of Ishgard. "Dost thou take offense to a test of mine own device?" asked the archon, suddenly and inexplicably overcome with a feeling of intense nervousness at the sight of all that smooth, coal-black skin revealed and rippling with movement as Bloom walked over to the barre to work through several _plié_ and _tendu_ combinations, warming up her body for the dance.

"You should warm up too, Urianger," she said, "cold muscles are prone to injury."

He complied, joining her at the barre for quarter of a bell before she broke to center. 

"Your device then, Urianger," Bloom said, settling into her opening pose: slightly bent forward at the hips, her back rod-straight all the way up through the top of her head and her arms bent at right angles, she looked the perfect Clockwork Doll -- a creation of Drosselmeyer's brought to Act One's Party Scene in order to entertain and amaze Clara and her family.

Urianger retrieved the ornate clockwork key from his things. Meant to hover just over the small of her back, rotating slowly as it glowed and sparked, he was a bit apprehensive as to whether or not the magic with which he'd infused the device would be strong enough to keep it following her, poised just above her skin but not quite touching, as she moved across the stage. 

Setting it in position and making the exaggerated movement of winding it that he was supposed to as Drosselmeyer, he watched with some degree of satisfaction as the key remained in place throughout Bloom's performance of the somewhat jarring motions of her dance. He was satisfied, indeed, and yet there was a growing sense of unease coupled with that comforting, familiar sense of satisfaction he experienced when some invention or theory of his performed as expected. 

A prickly streak of levin sparked through Urianger’s guts as he watched his Wind-Up Warrior dance, snapping at him, forcing him to unwind the last several months of his interactions with Bloom, obliging him to examine the subtext playing out underneath his every conversation with the woman, and compelling him, finally, into a stark awareness of his longing.


	7. Soldiers and Blind Mice, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is NSFW.

Artoirel de Fortemps paused at the top of the stairs overlooking the Airship Landing; he paused and looked out over the stone balustrade. It was his usual spot, his spot for thinking, thinking and staring at the clouds drifting above the abyss -- in the daytime at least. But it was dark now, not day, and, even worse for seeing, there was a thick fog rolling up through where thick fogs usually settled in the appropriately named Brume, to dare tread amongst the stonework and spires of the Pillars. Artoirel sighed. He pulled a pocket chronometer out of his thick coat and checked the time. A quarter bell until he could at least plausibly saunter over to Our Congregation of Knight’s Most Heavenly with the purpose of tempting Lucia to actually take leave of the building for the night. He huffed out a breath and watched it take shape as a patch of white air drifting away from him. Everything seemed to be drifting away from him, drifting just beyond his reach.

Whatever he did, however he tried to persuade her, Lucia was still so resistant to their establishing a more permanent relationship. She had made it very clear that, however much she might desire it, she would not marry him -- she would  _ not _ be the woman responsible for producing the next de Fortemps heir. How could she allow him to face the ignominy of introducing Garlean blood into the lines of the High Houses of Ishgard? Artoirel had countered that, as the bloodlines of the High Houses were a slurried mess of murdered dravanian and rapacious elezen as it was, the addition of her blood could do little to further contaminate them. She remained unconvinced. 

He remained ravenous, for her company, her touch, her sweet, sweet sighs as she toppled off him, their love-making complete, and snuggled tight to his side, her head resting on his shoulder. “‘toirel,” she’d call him, her special name, dragging her lips in a slow caress across his ear before nuzzling her face into his long neck. He was hoping for just such a scenario to unfold tonight, but first he would have to persuade the woman to leave work.

So he walked a slow walk, trying not to get there too fast, too early. The flagstones of Ishgard were damp tonight, slick. There had been a just-above-freezing rain early in the day, spilling to coat Ishgard in rime once both night and the temperature had fallen. At least the misery of rain and freezing fog made him appreciate the snow that more commonly fell, Artoirel thought to himself, as he strolled through the Jeweled Crozier on his descent to the Congregation, hands shoved loosely in his pockets. It was deserted by this time of night, the sound of his own heels tapping on stone the only sign of presence in the usually bustling shopping district. Well, dinners had long been served and eaten and breakfasts provided for; otherwise there was no pressing reason for shopping. The apothecary, perhaps, he thought, but she could be woken, called out at night.

Turning a sloping corner to drop further into the district, Artoirel was caught unprepared, and thus momentarily blinded, by a flash of intensely pink light. It pulsed and throbbed, blinking on and off in a lazy heartbeat rhythm and was seemingly contained, Artoirel thought as he moved closer to inspect it, in impossibly thin tubes of blown glass. Stepping back now, to take in the sight completely, he saw that it was a sign of some sorts, the name of a new dining spot spelled out in a glaring pink glow blinking on and off, on and off, attracting the gaze. 

Artoirel was staring too hard, too long, when the sound of something crashing to the stone in the too-quiet streets behind him startled him, snapping him around to stare out into the dark. It was no use; having looked too long into light, he was nigh blind once faced again with shadows. Raising clenched fists, he dug the knuckle of each index finger hard into his eyes, trying to clear them. 

Then, still somewhat unseeing, he pursued the source of the sound. It was not too long before he found it: an impossibly slender, silver stiletto blade lay flat against the stone only inches away from a Halonic rosary. Bending down to inspect them, Artoirel’s narrow eyes grew wide. Blood dripped from the very tip of the blade. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, retrieved the blade, rolling it tight into half the cloth, and then dangled the rosary into the other half. He would show them to Lucia when he reached the Congregation. 

There was no point in pursuit and much possible danger. Whoever had dropped the items was long departed, either intent on wounding or wounded, and, either way, perhaps desperate. One thing had changed, however, from this chance encounter in the Crozier: his progression toward the Congregation was no longer unhurried.

As Artoirel emerged into the relative light of St. Valeroyant’s Forum, boisterous already-drunks clustered around the doors of the “Knight” and potential drunks flooding through the tavern’s heavy wooden doors, he felt his unease slip from his shoulders. He hadn’t realized he had been holding himself so tight.

Nodding to the knight on duty at the doors, Artoirel entered the Congregation and proceeded straight to the Lord Commander’s office. At this time of night, that was surely where his own Lady Knight could be found whether Aymeric was there or not: if the Lord Commander  _ was _ still in his place behind his desk, Lucia would surely be clucking at him to finish his most pressing obligations and head home, and if she had somehow managed to hustle Ser Aymeric out the Congregation’s doors, she herself would have taken his place behind the desk, immersing herself in whatever tasks of his she was capable of addressing. The latter was the case this evening.

“Lucia,” he spoke softly to her bent head, not wishing to startle her.

“Hello, love,” she answered, slowly lifting her head and straightening to sit back in the heavy stone chair. She reached her arms toward the ceiling, clasping her hands, and arching her back, stretching. “Oh, Artoirel, what a day,” she sighed out. He could see the fatigue in her eyes and hastened to her side, wishing to provide relief. At least she had already shed her armor.

“What vexes thee, dearest?” he asked as he cocked his hip on the arm of Aymeric’s throne and began to massage his own knight’s shoulders.

“Too much, ‘toirel. The usual,” she said, rubbing her eyes absently with one hand, “ and the unusual. These threats to Aymeric’s life grow more disturbing as we draw closer to the Starlight Suite’s performance date.”

“Ah,” said the Count, drawing his rolled handkerchief from his pocket and unrolling it on the desk in front of Lucia. “I have something that might speak to those threats, might be somehow connected. These were dropped in the Jeweled Crozier not one bell past.”

“Blood,” said the woman. “Fresh too. What happened, Artoirel? Were you in danger?” she asked, putting her hand over his on the desk.

“I am a trained knight, you know, my dear,” he returned smiling at her concern. “And I don’t believe so, to answer your question. I just happened to be in close proximity to someone, or perchance multiple persons, who were very much in danger indeed.”

“And the rosary,” Lucia muttered, “‘tis strange... unusual design, an amulet depicting, what is this?” she asked, staring close at the round disk that bound the silver chain of the rosary into a long loop. “A blindfolded Fury, Halone deprived of sight. Have you ever seen anything like this, Artoirel?”

“Blind Fury, huh?” Artoirel surmised, “Tis not an unusual idiom, perhaps, but never applied to Halone, I think -- at least not in Ishgard.”

“Even under Thordan, the Inquisitors’ justification of their own methods relied heavily on Halone delivering a judgment that was ruthlessly clear-sighted,” Lucia said, a finger held to her lips. She furrowed her brows tight for a moment. “And the blade,” she said, taking the stiletto by the hilt and weighing it in her grasp. “Certainly Lominsan in make, and fine as a blade of this sort can be. I wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the hands of Brithael himself,” she continued. She stared at the stiletto hard for a moment longer and then closed her eyes tight and sighed. Artoirel, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders, felt her will the tension out of them.

“What is it, love?” he asked, bending to place a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck. 

She reached behind to grip his own nape with her left hand, pressing him harder into the kiss against her neck, then twisted in her seat to claim his lips with her own. “Oh,’toirel,” she gasped against his mouth, her pale cheeks flushing. Then, taking a deep breath, she pulled back, his strong jaw now clasped within her grip. “I’m neglecting you, love. How was your day? Did you meet with your beloved philosophers again?”

“I did,” Artoirel admitted. “All goes according to plan in regard to the university’s establishment.”

“Your true passion indeed,” said the woman, smiling at him. “You were born to be a scholar, Artoirel, not a constantly politicking nobleman.”

“Not quite true, my dear.  _ You _ are my truest passion,” he laughed, breaking out of her grasp and slipping in between her chair and the Lord Commander’s desk to pull himself up on its surface, facing her now. “But what am I to do, Lucia” he answered, “leave House de Fortemps to Emmanellian? My brother has made great strides forward in recent years in terms of embracing his responsibilities, but his open manner makes him utterly unsuited to navigating the House of Lords.”

“If…” she began, then stopped herself.

“It would have made no difference,” Artoirel finished for her. “If Haurchefant had lived he would have been as unsuited as Emmanellian to taking in hand the political reins of House de Fortemps. My brother was a formidable warrior and a truly good man, but he was utterly incapable of ignoring the least injustice, even temporarily, in order to pursue the greatest gain.” Artoirel sighed, his shoulders sagging for a moment. “ _ I _ am the Count de Fortemps, Lucia, like it or not.”

“I like it, Artoirel. I like everything you are, everything you do. I just feel for you. Like your father before you, you are destined to spend your life’s energies on tasks for which you have no true passion,” Lucia spoke in her low voice, her mouth bending into a small frown, “until you too retreat to your library, in the end, to take but small comfort in the writing of your memoirs.”

“Alas I will have not even _ that  _ small comfort without mine own heir to whom I can bequeath my title, an heir you seem still disinclined to give me,” returned the elezen, no sharpness in his words, just a tired, yielding resignedness.

“Artoirel…” his lady began.

He held up his hand. “But no more on that tonight, my dear,” he said as he reached out to quickly snag her hand within his own. He bent to kiss it, lingering, mouthing tens of tiny kisses up her hand and wrist and arm before sliding from the desk to sink to his knees between her legs. Pushing them apart even wider, he twisted his lithe body to curl his cheek close against the warm, silk-covered skin high up on her inner thigh. He kissed her there...and she laughed, loud and throaty. That was _ not  _ the response he had expected.

“You have made a grave miscalculation, ‘toirel,” his lady said, “one not worthy of your usually so sharply machinating mind,” she continued, thighs spreading further apart as they slackened and trembled from her fit of continued mirth at his expense. In the many moons that had passed since the initiation of their “arrangement,” Artoirel had yet to become aware that the Radiant was even capable of something so girlish as giggling. Then he tried to move and came to an immediate recognition of precisely  _ why  _ it was she was laughing.

“I seem to be stuck,” he murmured, the fabric at the knees of his trousers seemingly cemented to stone tile. Tugging gently against the stone, he realized he was glued in place enough that the force required to remove his knees from the floor would surely tear his fine dark blue velvet. “Why is it so sticky underneath Ser Aymeric’s chair, Lucia? Does he spill so very much of his beloved birch syrup when doctoring his tea?”

“A spilling indeed occurs, more than one usually, but it is not of birch syrup, my dearest,” replied Lucia still hissing mad laughter into her hand. “And Estinien is not inclined to clean up after himself.”

“Ah,” replied the Count, suddenly feeling remarkably  _ soiled _ for someone who had bathed so recently.

“And don’t even get me started on the desk itself,” Lucia continued. “You cannot  _ possibly _ imagine some of the things that have occurred on the surface of that desk,” she said, pointing toward the offending piece of furniture for emphasis and then bursting into a fresh exhalation of laughter, bringing her legs up and over her kneeling elezen supplicant, to curl into her torso as she continued to shake with the thought of Artoirel’s predicament. “Let me help you out of them, ‘toirel,” she said, “your trousers. They must needs come off.”

Well  _ that  _ at least sounded promising he thought from his position still stuck fast to the floor. Quickly, he unfastened his belt and started shimmying his trousers off his lean hips. Lucia helped, moving the chair back first so he would have more room, then stooping behind him to pull off his fine leather riding boots, and finally, once he’d ruched the fabric down to his knees, lifting him from under his arms to pull him out of the sad, discarded trousers. Standing beside her now, his shorts dragged down in the process of his extrication, exposing the divot of each hip bone, he kissed her deeply, suddenly desperate for the woman. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” said the Radiant, holding up her index finger in reprimand before using it to tap the tip of his nose. He had edged her back against Aymeric’s desk and was attempting, futilely since it was against her inclination, to lift her up onto its surface. “Were you not paying attention, ‘toirel?” she asked, laughing. “There’s not enough gil in Ul’dah to convince me to make love on the surface of Aymeric’s desk.”

“To your chambers then?” he asked, hopeful.

“Fine,” she answered, a small smile on her lips, before turning to retrieve the dagger and rosary from behind her. “I’ll show these to Ser Handeloup tomorrow, see what he thinks,” she continued.

But a scant half-bell later, the Count de Fortemps felt his Lady Knight tremble, buried as he was between her lovely ivory-skinned thighs, his slender fingers inside her, filling, and his lips pressed tight around her clitoris. He lessened the pull of his mouth, the stroke of his long tongue, as he felt her tremors diminish, and pressed a gentle kiss to her vulva, before feeling himself peremptorily yanked by one arm up into position over her.

“‘Toirel,” she said, breathless, angling her hips to catch his tip at her entrance. “There,” she told him, “you have it. Push in.” He did not argue -- as if anyone could successfully demur a direct order from Ishgard’s First Commander. Bone to bone now, pelvis to pelvis, he began his careful thrustings, the sensation of her -- warm and wet wrapping fully around him -- driving him forward, too close too quickly. 

That was annoying actually, this dodgy balance of his hardness. Desiring to bring her to yet another orgasm, he wished not to succumb immediately to his own pleasure. Yet the woman was just so, well, pleasant; being inside her was surely the closest he’d ever come to paradise. So he resorted to his usual method, filling his head with the least arousing images of which he could think. First, Emmanellian’s face -- his brother’s face as he stared gape-mouthed and stupid after being shot down yet again by Laniaitte de Haillenarte. He laughed out loud at the thought.

“What is it, Artoirel?” Lucia asked.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” she continued, sighing.

“I can’t help it. You’re just too luscious,” he said, concentrating again on his rhythm for a moment lest his erection diminish too much at the thought of his brother’s amusing disgrace. ‘Twas surely a balance.

“I don’t think I can again, ‘toirel,” Lucia said. “You’ve depleted me too fully with your tongue.”

“Oh really?” asked the Count de Fortemps, his eyes narrowing in determination.

Moments later, having proven the First Commander’s instincts, at least in this instance, to be profoundly incorrect, Artoirel de Fortemps finally gave in, feeling as though he exploded inside his lady with the force of his release. He gave a silent prayer to Halone, then, as he did everytime, that  _ this  _ would be the moment either her preventative would prove ineffective or his own elezen potency would somehow overcome it. Yes, he felt a degree of guilt embedded in the wish, knowing her ambivalence in regard to the topic, but he longed as he had for absolutely nothing else in his life to swell her belly with a child of his own -- to touch her and know that part of him grew inside her, melded, as it were, with her own sweet self.

Then they slept, perhaps draped over one another initially, settling in, but untangling themselves in sleep so that only their edges touched: her left shoulder, as she lay on her back, to his left shoulder, flopped over on his belly with one arm crushing the pillow tight to his sleeping head, their thighs skimming, ankles perhaps, occasionally the top of her foot tucked up underneath the arch of his. They were familiar enough in their relationship, whatever its true status, to arrange themselves for comfort now that the “early-days” clamouring of flesh for flesh was somewhat less urgent. Artoirel, for his part, was finding it more and more difficult indeed to find sleep at all without the very most Radiant of the Congregation’s Heavenly Knights at his side.

  
  


Ser Aymeric arrived earlier than expected at the Congregation of our Knights Most Heavenly the next morning and, proceeding to his desk with his usual cup of tea in hand, wondered very much about the discarded pair of dark blue velvet trousers stuck fast to the floor underneath his chair.


	8. Soldiers and Blind Mice, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my own academic regalia, and the robe is not so bad -- it's hot to wear during a Summer commencement, but it's monogrammed and has pockets, which is kind of cool. And my hat I actually like. It's royal blue velvet with the big gold tassel and I can wear it tilted like a squishy beret even though I'm not supposed to. But I really, really HATE my doctoral hood. It's a super heavy and long concoction of velvet and satin that's always pulling back against my throat and I inevitably always manage to choke myself pretty good by sitting on the back of the darned thing. Apparently this hatred of my hood was deep-seeded enough to bleed over into this chapter, where Professor Foucault, at least, makes good practical use of the thing for once.

Two days later, Artoirel sat amidst the stacks at what was once the scholasticate and was quickly becoming Notre Furie University. Knowing his deep interest in both Ishgardian History and Symbology, Lucia had asked him, after conferring with both Ser Handeloup and the Lord Commander, if he might research the image embossed on the Halonic Rosary, the image of the blindfolded Fury. He had thus dutifully poked and prodded among the many volumes in the upper halls, not yet daring to proceed to the labyrinthine deep stacks located several floors down. Once sucked within that veritable _ City _ of stored knowledge without his own guiding Virgil, Artoirel feared he might never again emerge into real light however enlightened he became as a result of his initial foray. Upstairs, however, he had yet found nothing.

“Count de Fortemps!” said an enthusiastic voice behind him. “What brings you to our hallowed halls this morning?” 

“Professor Foucault,” Artoirel responded, smiling with true pleasure at the man. The reading table where Artoirel was sitting, thick tomes stacked on the polished dark wood in front of him, was deserted except for himself, as, indeed, was the room itself before the philosopher had trod in, his academic gown flapping around him like he was an over-sized bat. Artoirel had to wonder why he bothered with full regalia when classes were still at least ten moons from beginning in earnest. That hood particularly -- well it was actually not a hood at all; one could draw it over one’s own head for neither warmth nor protection from the elements. It was more of a mantle, a heavy velvet and satin mantle that draped into a “V” several feet down behind the wearer, pulling the front of the damned thing choking tight against the professor’s throat with the weight of so much fabric hanging down the back. Artoirel could see, as Foucault moved, the spot on his throat that was rubbed raw from the pull of his hood dragging behind him. Still he wore full regalia. Perhaps he couldn’t imagine  _ not  _ wearing it. 

“Can I be of any help to our most sincere and avid advocate and most beneficent benefactor?” asked the philosopher, his smile crinkling up his eyes.

Artoirel was about to answer in the negative when the thought occurred to him that, of course, here was the guide for whom he had been searching. “Indeed you can, professor.”

“How wonderful! With no students available to teach I might have had to concentrate on my own work if not for this most welcome distraction. How might I help you, Lord Artoirel?” Foucault asked.

Artoirel removed the rosary from where he had wrapped it in a fresh linen handkerchief and held it out for the philosopher to examine.

“Ah,” said the elezen. “Lovely, indeed. But your instincts are correct my Lord; a blinded Fury is unusual,” he continued. “I vaguely recall having seen something like it, however, long, long ago, before so many of us fled Ishgard, unwilling to be buried within the borders of a sealed Holy See.”

“You’re seen something like this before then? I had no idea,” Artoirel responded.

“If I could just place my mind on it…” the philosopher said, tapping his index finger to his temple. “Ah yes! I believe it has something to do with a dead Noble House, a name that died out for want of heirs -- though something doesn’t sit quite right about that,” he continued. “Ah!” he exclaimed, hitting the very top of his bald pate with the flat of his hand. “My skull grows benumbed indeed -- perchance from my reexposure to Ishgardian frigidity. It was  _ more _ than just a lack of heirs if this is the example of which I’m thinking. Would you mind accompanying me down to the deep stacks, my Lord?” inquired the philosopher. “I wish to search out a source.”

“It would be my pleasure, Professor,” Artoirel replied. “You know not how much your guidance is appreciated in this matter.”

“‘Tis nothing, My Lord,”replied the older elezen. 

“Doctor Foucault, please, if you would...please consider calling me Artoirel -- at least when we’re free from the public gaze, where the discarding of my title might appear as a weakness to our political opponents,” Artoirel proposed.

“Of course, course, My...Artoirel, I mean. It would be an honor,” the philosopher replied.

“The honor, truly, is being able to discourse on a regular basis with arguably the greatest mind of the last fifty-some Summers,” Artoirel said, growing a bit heated, tired of always being the one to whom deference was accorded regardless of worth or accomplishment. “Lead on, professor!”

Winding down the spiraling staircase into the lower portions of what had once been the scholasticate’s library, Foucault out in front, holding up an aether-fueled brass lantern to light their way, Artoirel was suddenly filled with a vague but growing sense of unease. The stacks extended nearly to the vaulted stone ceiling of the room, volume upon volume pushing down upon him, judging, crushing him with the combined weight of their knowledge, pressing him to understand how very futile was his attempt to understand, how very, very much there was still to know, and how very many gaps a traditional Ishgardian nobleman’s education had left in his frame of reference.

“Ah, here! Come this way, Artoirel,” beckoned the professor, halfway down a row of heavy red leather-bound volumes. “‘Tis the peerage,” he continued, gesturing to the row of books, “The Dubois Peerage -- a record of Ishgardian nobility extending back at least one thousand years. If I recall,” said Foucault, counting off the volumes with his finger as he progressed down the row, “there’s something here about a noble house, long dead, that used an image of a blind-folded Fury in its coat of arms.” 

Reaching the volume for which he was looking, the professor snatched the book from the shelves and flipped quickly through the pages, looking for something particular. “Ah, I doth bear a brain!” Foucault exclaimed triumphantly. “Here it is, Artoirel,” he continued, passing the opened book over to the Count. “House de Corbeau. Never a dominant House, I don’t think,” said the philosopher, coming up to look at the book over Artoirel’s shoulder, “but it persisted, if I recall, until about a hundred and fifty years past, when it died out, I had thought, for a lack of heirs.” 

Artoirel stared at the depiction of House de Corbeau’s heraldry drawn in the peerage, examining the raven-winged Fury, blind-folded and brandishing Her spear, set against a dark crimson background.

“Oh Sweet Halone! Would you look at this, Count,” Foucault gasped from over his left shoulder, pointing toward the page opposite the coat of arms. Before Artoirel could respond, however, even with his eyes, a loud crash resonated through the deep stacks, echoing throughout the stone-walled room.

“Stay here, Professor,” commanded the Count, instantly snapping into House de Fortemps Knight mode. Running back up the row that housed the Dubois Peerage, Artoirel paused at the end and drew his short, flat-bladed dirk from within his thick Alpine coat, regretting again that he had yet to take up Stephanivian de Haillenarte’s offer, as Lucia had urged him, and taken some instruction in the art of the machinist. It just seemed such a  _ dishonorable _ weapon, he had thought, but he could see the benefit of its uses in this closed, tight space where a small ranged weapon, like a pistol, might give him an advantage. Peering around the corner of the library shelf he had pinned himself up against, he held the dirk at the ready and slid out into the main corridor linking the row of shelves.

Back by the “peerage,” Foucault cradled the open volume Artoirel had thrust back into his arms, and was holding the rosary up by its chain in order to compare it to the heraldry depicted therein. Much later he would recall being distinctly surprised, so intent was he in his study, by the realization that he could no longer breathe. He could no longer breathe, of course, because he was in the process of being choked to death by his own blasted doctoral hood. 

Dropping both the volume and the rosary, the professor instinctively drew his hands to his neck, trying to shove his fingers between tightly-drawn satin and skin. No use, he thought to himself, the pain in his head increasing measurably as pressure from trapped blood flow pounded. Foucault could virtually _ feel _ his face turning purple and his consciousness starting to fade. One shot, thought the philosopher; he knew that was all he had, the time in which he could initiate one last drastic action. Well, the man wasn’t said to have the greatest mind of his generation for no reason, and, thus, the shot he decided to take was a well-calculated one.

Using his last reserve of strength, the philosopher twisted his body so that his attacker was positioned between himself and the bookshelf. Then he simultaneously threw his entire body back against the shelf and slammed his hard, bald head back into the nose of his assailant. Instantly, he felt the grip on his neck release as the person’s unconscious body slumped down between Foucault and the heavy wooden, book-filled shelves. Pausing just one moment so that the pressure in his head could dissipate, the philosopher drew his mantle from around his neck, wrapped it twice around his would-be assassin’s torso, pinning his arms tight to his body, drew the body flat on the ground and promptly sat on it.

At the other end of the stacks, Artoirel prowled, unaware yet of the dire circumstances in which his philosopher friend had found himself. Hearing the whisper of a drawn-in breath, he immediately slid himself backwards into a darkened row of shelving... and directly into another body.

“Wait,” he heard a voice say behind him at the same time as he felt strong hands pressed against his lower back. Artoirel snapped around.

“Master Thancred,” he exclaimed, immediately recognizing the shocking white hair of the Scion.

“Count de Fortemps,” Thancred answered, furrowing his brow, clearly confused.

“Artoirel! Artoirel!” the Count heard the rasping voice of his philosopher friend croak out from the other end of the room. He hastened to his side with the Scion padding close behind. Surprised to find the man sprawled sitting on the ground, his long black robes spread out around him, Artoirel dropped to a crouch to examine him before he was even aware of what it was, precisely, upon which the philosopher was sitting.

“You got one of them, then,” said Thancred, gesturing toward the philosopher.

“Aye,” croaked out Foucault, his voice still rough, raw.

It was then that Artoirel noticed that the philosopher had managed to wrangle a captive.

“He was after the rosary, I think,” huffed out the bald-pated elezen, pointing to where said item had dropped to the floor. Thancred scooped it up and handed it to Artoirel. 

“Must be important for them to risk so much to reclaim it,” said the Scion. “The Sightless are not usually so brazen, in my experience. I had wanted very much to examine that rosary myself the other night, when it was wielded against me as a weapon. It can conduct aether, you know,” continued the Scion. “I had meant to snatch it back up when I returned for my blade. By the way, does Ser Aymeric have my knife in his keeping yet? There’s some sentiment attached to it, and I would like it returned after the Congregation has completed its investigation.”

“Of course…” Artoirel started.

“Wait, Count,” the philosopher interjected, flailing his arms toward the dropped volume lying behind Artoirel on the floor. “The rosary…is important, surely, and I’m certain he meant to reclaim it, but I think ‘tis the information contained in the peerage that provoked the actual attack against me. They wished the connection I uncovered to remain lost to time,” Foucault rasped out. “Look, Artoirel, on the page opposite the heraldry. House de Corbeau did not die out; it was subsumed. I had thought there was something strange to the story, and I was right: the name was eclipsed in marriage when the last daughter of the house married…” he paused here for a moment, his breath still caught short, before beginning again. “She married, indeed... into House de Borel.”

  
  


Later that evening, after both the philosopher and his still unconscious captive had been delivered into the hands of a clucking Captain Abel and the Knights Hospitallers at Our Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly, Artoirel, accompanied by the erstwhile Scion, sought out Lucia. She was not in her usual haunts, neither right inside the doors of the Congregation nor inside Ser Aymeric’s office. 

“I had thought you had exchanged your knives for that Garlean weapon, Master Thancred,” Artoirel said as he roamed the corridors, heading toward a distant-playing music.

“Aye, a gunblade is my weapon of choice now, but just because I don’t wield them as often, does not mean I can no longer manage my blades,” Thancred answered, with a half-smile. “And the knives lend themselves more to the subterfuge required for my mission here in Ishgard. Urianger informed me of the nasty political undercurrent flowing through the city at the moment and poor Alphinaud is nearly sick with it,” he explained. “The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have every interest in assuring that The Republic of Ishgard remains strong. Aymeric is the core of that strength. Any threat to him must be addressed with the most seriousness.”

“You’ve been following him then, from the shadows?” Artoirel asked.

“At every opportunity,” replied the Scion.

“Well, that will certainly set Lucia’s heart at ease, as well as my own,” Artoirel replied. “Thank you, Thancred.”

The Scion just nodded as they reached the door of the dance studio, from whence, indeed, the music was issuing. Artoirel smiled to see Lucia, out of her armor, a soft smile spread across her face as she leaned against the wall just inside the studio door, watching Aymeric and Estinien dance. The Ballet Master was there, tapping his stick lightly on the floor and smiling as he called out instruction to the pair, coaching them through the end of their pas de deux. Artoirel noticed, however, that Pierrault’s smile, while still brimming with a deep warmth, rested somewhat tired on his face. He would have to look into that. The man was a treasure and Artoirel, as the Count de Fortemps, was very interested in recruiting him to teach dance, kinesiology, and dance history at Notre Furie. For now, however, much like his own Lady Knight’s, the Count’s gaze was drawn to the dance.

Estinien was electric, responding easily and immediately to Pierrault’s called-out corrections and adjustments. He pointed the toe of his lifted foot just slightly more skyward in his perfect ninety degree  _ arabesque _ , pushing hard against the resistance of his ankle, just as Pierrault had called out. The minimally adjusted angle made his foot in its white satin pointe shoe look slightly winged, lifting the entire pose as Aymeric slowly drew him forward, sliding him several fulms across the stage on a small piece of hemp positioned underneath his fully en pointe supporting leg. Having to hold that  _ arabesque _ perfectly in place while Aymeric pulled him was an extremely difficult feat that Estinien somehow made look as effortless as he did his dragoon jumps.

Artoirel found himself, as he was drawn further into the performance, noting that one of the nice things about two men performing a pas de deux was that Aymeric’s beautiful face was not completely obscured by a classic tutu when he lifted Estinien to sit gracefully on his shoulder, a lift that was often placed late in a pas de deux to allow the ballerina a moment of respite in which she, or in this case he, could catch her or his breath. Aymeric turned to set Estinien lightly on his feet again, holding his hand as the dragoon took another  _ arabesque _ and Aymeric promenaded around him, Estinien holding the position for a full rotation with just that lightest touch of his partner’s hand for balance.

Finally, the music crescendoed to its end in preparation for the most dramatic lift of the Grand Cavalier Pas de Deux: the Fish Dive. The problem with the fish dive for this particular partnership, however, was that both men were fairly even in height, the pointe shoes certainly adding the usual five ilms to the ballerina’s height when fully en pointe, an addition even more striking in a dancer already as long of limb as Estinien, but of no particular consequence to the dive. What was of consequence to the final hold of the ballet was the fact that Aymeric, when he bowed Estinien toward the floor, was allowing his lover’s lovely face to draw way too quickly into contact with its hard wooden surface.

“Hold him by the front of his hips, dear Aymeric,” corrected Pierrault, “and slide your right leg forward more fully, letting his belly rest on your left thigh. Keep him close as possible, closely molded to your body,” Pierrault continued, moving toward Aymeric to adjust his right foot forward. “And you, Estinien, arch your back more fully. Really feel as though you’re pulling your shoulders toward the backs of your thighs, stretching your body fully into the arc. And keep that chin lifted, head up, eyes gazing at the fingertips of the hand you have stretched out toward the floor. The direction of your eyes indicates intent, my dear Estinien, and is just as important as where you place any other part of your body,” Pierrault instructed.

Both men adjusted to try and comply with the ballet master’s instructions, Estinien’s face becoming less compromised as they grew more comfortable with the pose.

“Now ease up slowly, Aymeric, setting your Sugarplum back into his  _ arabesque _ ...nice, nice, my boy,” enthused Pierrault as he watched Aymeric rise to place Estinien upright again. “And then ‘tis just the finale and curtain calls, my friends,” he said, placing his stick in front of his body and resting both his hands atop its knob.

Lucia moved to stand from the wall and started to applaud softly. “That was beautiful, Estinien,” she said, her eyes shining a little, Artoirel noticed. He had not the slightest idea she was interested in dancing. She went up to the sweating dragoon then, his chest still heaving, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You and Aymeric are so lovely together,” she said and reached down to squeeze his hand.

BANG! An explosion, nearby from the sound of it, echoed through the stone walls of Our Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly, and everyone within the studio froze for a moment, unaccustomed as they were to hearing the sounds of war and duress within the walls of Ishgard in recent years. Aymeric moved first.

“Stay here, Master. Do not come outside,” he commanded Pierrault, his tone firm. Then he turned to Lucia, “We have no time for our armor, my shield. We’ll to my office to fetch Naegling and then to the streets.”

“Lord Commander,” Lucia returned, saluting.

Artoirel turned to address Thancred and was surprised to see that the Scion had already slipped out into the night. Then he turned back to Aymeric. “I have no sword, alas, Lord Aymeric. Nor can reach one without returning to Fortemps Manor…”

“The armory can supply you, Count,“ Aymeric broke in, anxious now to be off. Artoirel just nodded.

“Aymeric!” he heard shouted from behind him in a tone full of anguish. Turning, Artoirel saw Estinien facing Aymeric, his arms held wide, palms facing out toward his lover, imploring. “You wear no armor. You refuse to wield a shield,” the dragoon barked out, his voice tormented. “You cannot go thus naked into battle.”

Aymeric returned his look, his own eyes speaking a deep concern for his love. Still, he knew there was no winning this argument. Estinien would keep him from harm to the detriment even of Ishgard’s citizenry and that was perhaps the one desire of his dearest love’s with which he could not comply. He said nothing, only paused for a beat, looking longingly into Estinien’s eyes, before turning and walking out of the studio. Lucia followed. Artoirel’s eyes widened then, before he too turned to follow Ser Aymeric, to see Estinien, still Ishgard’s mightiest of warriors, cover his face with his long, elegant hands and collapse into a body-quivering sob. 

Out in the streets now, a sword in his hand, Artoirel followed Lucia and Aymeric toward the blaze they could now see roaring somewhere in the vicinity of the Jeweled Crozier. The streets were slick again this evening, wet with rain fast turning to ice. And it was quiet, only their footsteps echoing through the streets as they progressed toward the market district, sounds of voices and crackling flames still up ahead of them. Turning a corner down into the Crozier proper, Artoirel caught sight again of that unearthly pink light, the glass-tubed café sign blinking on and off, on and off, like a steady heartbeat pulsing Aymeric’s skin rose gold as Artoirel saw him shiver, clad still in only his tight-fitting short-sleeved shirt and ballet tights. He watched as Aymeric steeled himself against the cold, willing his shiver away as he hoisted Naegling up at the ready. 

It was a good thing too, because the attack came swiftly. At his flank before he was even aware, a flame of aether came shooting toward Artoirel that even he, with all his nobleman knight’s training, could never have dodged in time. Fortunately his love had both training and reflexes that far surpassed his own. Lucia turned the flame aside with her very blade, reflecting it on its caster.

“You shall not touch what is  _ mine _ ,” she said with a snarl. And if he had not been so startled by the exchange, by the adrenaline surging, Artoirel might have felt a little thrill at the idea of being claimed by his Lady Knight. He did not have long to think on it, however, as two more adversaries, also clad in monk’s robes and wielding rosaries, came up on his other side. 

Before he could react, Aymeric charged into the side of one of the men with his shoulder, knocking him to the ground and pointing Naegling at his throat.

“Yield,” said the knight. “I do not wish to hurt thee.”

“Bastard!” the man hissed, “Sodomite! Halone smite thee down, thou most reviled scion of the House Borel!” shouted the monk, raising his rosary to point toward Aymeric’s heart even from the ground. Artoirel saw the knight’s eyes widen in surprise, and a fear shot through the Count de Fortemps that Aymeric would not be able to follow through with a killing blow. Before he could discover the extent of the Lord Commander’s capabilities, however, a silver blade came sailing through the air to embed itself in the eye of the snarling monk pinned beneath Aymeric’s blade. The man fell silent at the knight’s feet. 

Still, another three monks ran up to replace him, surrounding them, hemming them in. Thancred stepped out of the shadows then, glanced skyward for a brief moment, and grabbed Artoirel by the wrist, pulling him back and away from the group of newly arrived assailants.

“Lucia,” cried the Scion, “get Lord Aymeric.” Artoirel was vaguely aware, then, of his own Lady Knight rushing forward in response to Thancred’s request. She bent to scoop the Lord Commander over her shoulder and sprinted toward where Thancred had pulled the Count flat against the wall behind the leatherworker’s stand.

“Master Thancred, why…” Artoirel began, then stopped, mouth hanging open, as a streak of pure white dove down straight from the sky to explode in a cloud of fire and sparks that eclipsed the entire area where they had just been standing, where their assailants were  _ still  _ standing.

“Estinien!” Aymeric cried out, his fringe swept clear from his face by the shockwave of his lover’s unmistakable dragonfire dive.

Estinien slowly rose from the dispersing smoke and fire. Still wearing his white shirt and tights, even his beribboned satin slippers, he was Aymeric’s adoring avenger, his silver hair whipping all around him in his self-generated current of air as he strode slowly toward his knight, potential assassins spread out in a crumpled circle of death behind him.

“Don’t you  _ ever  _ do that again,” he yelled out to Aymeric, a wet sob caught in his throat. “Don’t you ever run off  _ without  _ me,” the dragoon said, and Artoirel watched, somewhat in shock, as Estinien, still grasping Nidhogg in his left hand, used his right one to clasp Aymeric around the back of his neck and pull him deep into a trembling kiss.


	9. Orn Khai's Cup of Ishardian Tea, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some NSFW content toward the end.

Estinien had made a mistake. He was certain of it. Bringing Aymeric along on this excursion into the Dravanian Forelands, despite the formidable guard accompanying him, was certainly a mistake. But the knight had been so hopeful, his ever-bright eyes shining when Estinien had mentioned Orn Khai’s request that the silver-haired elezen meet him at Anyx Trine. The dragonet had, apparently, a surprise for his favorite dragoon and insisted that the only place this surprise could be communicated was deep within Dravania. Estinien could only hope the surprise consisted of something more substantial than the dried squid he and his dravanian companion had so enjoyed while in Kugane all those moons ago -- something substantial enough, indeed, to warrant having dragged his beloved malms away from Ishgard.

Still, maybe the squid alone was enough to justify the trip considering how happy it seemed to be making Aymeric. Ishgard had been wearing on its Lord of Lords more so than usual as of late. While the streets had been empty of actual antagonists since Estinien’s brutal dive had eradicated what numbers “The Sightless” had assembled inside Ishgard’s walls, at least according to that other Scion’s reckoning...what was his name? Estinien couldn’t recall.

“Urianger,” he called out. “What’s the name of your friend Scion, the roguish one, with the hair like mine own?” he asked.

“Thancred is the only Scion that answereth to that description, though he be hardly the rogue any longer,” the archon responded absently, spinning his star globe on his hand, checking and double-checking his weapon’s aetheric output. If he was going to serve as Lord Aymeric’s protector, Urianger was going to damn well make certain his gear was in perfect operating order.

Estinien nodded and sighed. “Thancred, then,” he said out loud to himself. So, while the monks had been somewhat hesitant to show their faces since the night of their attack on the Crozier, Aymeric himself had seemed increasingly weary, tired of shouldering, well, everything he always shouldered as both Lord Speaker of the House of Lords and Lord Commander of the Temple Knights. The persistence of the monks’ rumors and slurs certainly didn’t help contribute to his lover’s equanimity either, Estinien thought, anger flashing hot through his gut. As ever, as always, as he had for his  _ entire _ Fury-fucked life, Aymeric had to “rise above,” presenting the beautiful surface of his face to the world without ever daring to show even a ripple of unease or pain lurking beneath. His eyes had grown dull above that perfectly poised smile.

Bringing him out through the Western Highlands, however, made Aymeric’s eyes burn as brightly as the flush flared cherry red on his cheeks from the brutal cold. He was practically a boy during Starlight in his enthusiasm, pulling Estinien through the drifts to reminisce about a path they’d trodden on some long-ago patrol as Temple Knights. Tripping face-first into the snow, and pulling Estinien down upon him in the process, Aymeric had twisted to face his lover, sable-dark hair framed in a sea of crystal white, and drawn his dragoon into the kiss he’d so desperately wished to claim when they were very young soldiers. 

“I loved you even then,” he’d murmured into Estinien’s ear before laughing as he peremptorily rolled the other man off to the side and, struggling to stand, shook a shimmering dust of snow from his hair. He hadn’t even offered Estinien a hand to his feet before bounding back toward some new distraction.

Now, however, they were in the Dravanian Forelands themselves, and snow had turned to steam, making Aymeric shed layers and Estinien shed his composure: he was unused to seeing so much of his lover’s skin bared to the open air. It made  _ him _ feel exposed, ironically.

“Do not fret so, Estinien,” Alphinaud advised his friend, noticing the dragoon’s concern. “Ser Aymeric could not be better protected were he sealed inside The Vault itself.” At the look Estinien gave him, the younger elezen reconsidered his words. For such an astute student of diplomacy, Aphinaud could occasionally make the most unthinking of gaffes. “I didn’t mean...I’m sorry, Estinien,” the young man apologized, remembering  _ who _ had been lost when Aymeric had, indeed, been held prisoner inside the Vault.

“‘Tis a good thing ‘meric didn’t hear you,” Estinien responded. “Or, e’en worse, Bloom,” he continued, gesturing toward the towering Roegadyn woman striding at the head of their party, her enormous black axe slung across her back.

“I know. I know,” responded the boy.

“What has he done now?” Alisaie asked, sighing with mock exasperation as she swung over to the pair, instinctually able to nose out her brother’s mortification

“‘Tis nothing, sister,” Alphinaud replied, blushing.

Alisaie laughed and pulled her brother into a hug, pressing a quick kiss into his white hair. “‘You lie,” she said, pushing him roughly away.

“Alisaie!” the boy replied, stumbling, but his sister had already hustled back to Bloom’s side and drawn her sword, making mock jabs at imaginary enemies along their path.

“Not long until Tailfeather,” Aymeric remarked, falling alongside Estinien and Alphinaud. “Shall we stay there tonight or keep on and make camp in the wilds?” he asked Estinien.

“Depends on what Bloom wants, I suppose,” Estinien answered, yawning.

“Bloom will want to camp then,” Alphinaud responded immediately. “The beds at outposts such as Tailfeather -- a town mostly not used to Roegadyn patronage -- rarely suit someone of her size.”

“We’ll keep on until Loth ast Vath perhaps, maybe make camp near the waterfalls,” Aymeric suggested hopefully.

“Romantic, perhaps,” Estinien answered, “but hardly prudent. The falls would prevent us from hearing the approach of an enemy.”

“Relax, my love,” Aymeric said, grabbing both of Estinien’s hands in his and using his body weight to playfully whip his beloved around in a circle once... twice… three times e’en. Estinien allowed it, but demurred when Aymeric pulled him close and tried to lift him off his feet.

“We must be vigilant, ‘meric. This is no time for play. You’ve been marked for assassination by cultists; your life is at stake,” he said, pressing his hand to Aymeric’s chest, pushing him away.

“What is my life worth if I cannot enjoy living it? What is any life worth, really, if duty and fear constrain it so?” his lord replied in a very rare display of vehement temper, before striding off on his own into the forest.

“Stay with the group please, Aymeric,” Bloom said evenly, her low voice projecting without any need to shout.

“Pray allow me, Ser Estinien,” Urianger said, darting in between the dragoon and the direction in which his precious knight had stormed off.

Estinien simply nodded, swallowing hard to push down the threatening tears.

“Be quick, Urianger,” warned Bloom. “Please, my friend, I do not like us becoming separated.”

“Aymeric,” said the archon, trotting up beside the retreating knight. “Pray return with me to the succor of thy friends. While I sympathize with thy desire to be free, hadst thou truly desired to shake off the chains Ishgard hath coiled about thee, thou wouldst have fled its icy environs with thy roving beloved long ago. Thou dost choose thine own prison, my lord,” Urianger said, brutal in his honesty, but his voice still warm with admiration. “And ‘tis the prison of thine own faith in thy people -- the loftiest of prisons imaginable, my friend,” he continued, “and only to be imagined by one as clear-hearted and ever skyward-bound as thee.”

“I am peevish and petty in my temper, Archon Augurelt. And I’m ashamed for you to be a witness to it,”Aymeric responded, contrite but not yet slackening his pace toward the Chocobo Forest.

“Nay, Aymeric. Blame not thyself. Few in all of Eorzea bear the weight of care thou dost shoulder,” Urianger assured the other man, reaching out to place his hand on that same shoulder, trying to arrest the knight’s march forward.

Aymeric stopped then, but didn’t yet turn around. Instead he bowed his head, chin held tight to his chest, and started to sob. “I’m not frightened by the prospect of dying, Urianger. But what it would do to Estinien...my death, I mean. If I am to die before him…”

“Thou art not like to die with Bloom Rising at thy side, Lord Commander,” the archon assured him, “not to mention the contingent of Scions that accompany thee, myself included. Yet, as one who was once in the position thou wouldst ascribe to Ser Estinien, one left bereft of love and like to die upon grief, I can assure thee ‘twas still better to have loved than loved not. ‘Twas  _ still _ better to have loved…” Urianger reemphasized, voice trailing off to a whisper, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.

“Perhaps ‘twould be even better to love again? What say you, Master Augurelt?” Aymeric responded, turning around to face the other elezen, blue eyes looking straight into golden, as Aymeric absently wiped away his tears with the flat of his palm. Urianger could avoid neither his gaze, nor the meaning contained therein. 

“She regardeth me as a friend merely,” the archon replied, looking at the ground for a moment. “And did she not, I fear mine own regrets, mine own attachment still to my lost love, wouldst prevent an honest attempt at establishing new love. My heart is yet unclear.”

“The both of you would mourn forever, then?” Aymeric asked. “I sincerely regret never having the opportunity of acquainting myself with Archon Wilfsunnwyn,” the dark-haired elezen continued. Urianger started at the mention of Moenbryda’s name, dropping his hand from Aymeric’s shoulder. “I expect, however, knowing what I do of the remarkable woman that she was, that she would have wished for nothing  _ less _ than for her dearest love to devote himself to her grave. And I  _ did  _ know Lord Haurchefant,” Aymeric said with a heavy sigh. “He was my dear friend, dear enough that I well know he would have wished for Bloom to love again. There was nothing the Silver Fuller loved more than love itself; he brimmed full of it. Allow yourself to teach Bloom Rising something for a change, Urianger,” Aymeric said, vehement again,”show her how to love again.”

Urianger reeled. “We must needs hasten our steps toward the group, Aymeric,” he said. Aymeric smiled then and squeezed Urianger’s arm before turning to direct himself back toward the main party. “Hasten thine own steps toward love, Urianger. Allow something to ‘bloom’ between yourself and Hydalyn’s chosen,” he smirked, rushing back at such a pace that the archon felt himself stumbling in the knight’s footsteps again, struggling to keep up.

  
  


In the end, they compromised, setting up camp within sight of The Hundred Throes, within hearing range of its rushing spray, but not at the base of the waterfalls. Wards were, of course, a specialty of Archon Augurelt’s; he’d mastered abjuration magics in his concealment and protection of the Waking Sands during the debacle that was the Crystal Braves ascendence. Drawing a circle of protective alarms around their camp was the work of mere minutes for the Scion, and Alphinaud added an extra layer of protection by summoning his ever-vigilant carbuncle. Their security protocols thus fully in place, the party settled in for the night, three small tents set up around a central campfire. 

“Ha! I win again,” Alisaie exalted, ‘mating her bewildered brother in a relatively insubstantial number of moves. “You’d think you would be good at this game, dear brother, with your endlessly calculating mind.”

“He thinks too much, perhaps,” said Aymeric, kneeling down beside the twins to survey the end of the chess game. “Too much history, too many strategies circulating up here,” he pointed to his head, “can impede one’s ability to simply play. And you’re a reckless opponent, Mistress Alisaie, throwing your pieces at the board -- very unpredictable,” Aymeric finished with a smile. “Shall we play sometime soon, Master Alphinaud,” asked the older elezen.

“Play you, Lord Aymeric?” Alphinaud asked, doubtful. “I fear I would embarrass myself,” he said with a small sigh.

“Nay, my young friend,” Aymeric returned, reaching out his hand to playfully ruffle Alphinaud’s hair. Used to being treated like a child, Alphinaud endured the gesture silently, hoping to grant his troubled friend a degree of comfort, yet secretly, as always, urging on the commencement of his own elezen growth spurt. It was difficult to imagine, certainly, either Estinien or Aymeric suffering through such a prolonged trial of truncated stature. 

“I think we would be more evenly matched in playing style,” Aymeric remarked, drawing Alphinaud’s attention from his own thoughts. “We both rely on a thorough understanding of strategies past. ‘Twould make for a good match, I think,” said the older man.

Alisaie yawned and stretched out her arms. “No rematch I think, for now,” she said to her brother. “Time for some shut-eye. Come on Bloom,” the girl called, startling the older woman awake from where she’d nodded off beside the campfire. Together they retired to their shared tent.

“I shall take first watch,” offered Urianger.

“Fine then, wake me when you come in,” Alphinaud called to his tentmate before ducking in through the canvas flap, carrying his sleek travel chess set with him.

“Thou art out of options, my friend,” Urianger said, turning to Aymeric with a rueful smile.

“Aye,” answered the knight, “time to face the music,” he said, padding off toward the tent he would share with Estinien.

Estinien himself had been conspicuously absent from the circle of the party since Aymeric’s return from the woods. He’d eaten quickly, offering not even the slightest critique of the meal before slipping silently into his tent and remaining therein for the duration of the evening. His beloved knew this most likely meant his reception within would be a cool one, so he was surprised by the sight that met him when he entered the tent and drew the canvas flap closed tight behind him. 

Estinien, while covered from the hips down with a soft woolen blanket embellished with a House De Borel Crest, was obviously naked. He was lying on his belly, head resting on folded arms, on the lightweight feather mattress that served as quite the luxurious upgrade from the thin bedrolls they had endured as young knights. Exposed thus, the slender curve of Estinien’s back seemed to stretch endlessly, extending from his swan-like neck -- bared purposely, Aymeric suspected, by a sweeping of the dragoon’s long silver hair over his right shoulder -- down the sinuous line of his spine, to where his long silver-scaled tail twitched languidly back and forth just over the top edge of his coverings. 

Sweet Fury, he was glorious, Aymeric thought as he gazed down upon the long, lovely line of his beloved’s ivory skin, glowing luminous as it was in the dim lantern light. Aroused fully now, just from the sight of him, Aymeric yearned to press his full weight down upon Estinien’s back, longed to mark that flawless neck, longed to push himself inside. 

“Aymeric,” Estinien said, stirring not even the slightest ilm but for the continued slow movement of his tail. “Sit down.”

“You wish to torment me, then,” observed the other man wryly, “by displaying what you would deny me.” He sighed. “I deserve it, perhaps.”

“That you would choose Ishgard over me comes as no surprise, Aymeric,” Estinien started in before Aymeric could even obey his command to sit. “I have long known that while you are _ my _ life,  _ yours _ is Ishgard,” the dragoon whispered. “But for you to disregard…”

“You are wrong, Estinien,” Aymeric interrupted. “Truly it is mine own first, my life. I choose to give some of it to Ishgard -- my time, certainly, and my hope for its citizens and their future, but the rest, the  _ better _ parts of me, are entirely yours. My heart is yours, Estinien, as are my trust, my companionship, my devotion; all of these I give to you, for only _ you _ are my beloved.” Aymeric’s voice was solemn and his words were spoken formally, almost like a vow. He looked down for a moment, brushing away the tears that streaked down his cheeks for the second time that evening, before continuing. “I grant that I should not be so very cavalier with myself considering how _ much _ of me I’ve given to your keeping. I apologize for running heedlessly into battle that night in the Crozier, Estinien.”

Estinien turned to him then, propping his chin in his hand and craning to look over his left shoulder. “‘Tis what I have learned to expect of you, Aymeric, that you would behave ‘cavalierly’ in regard to your own safety; you are in fact a cavalier, after all, a paragon among knights and always in the van of any charge. But those charges were against foes well known and well considered; we do not know against whom we fight with these cultists, and that makes them superlatively dangerous. You spared not a moment to plan, to strategize or consult, to allow me to shed those ridiculous slippers, and then you turned your back on me, Aymeric; you left me behind,” the dragoon finished, exhaling a long breath.

“I know, Estinien. I know, and I am so  _ very _ sorry,” replied the knight.

“‘Tis fine, Aymeric. You are forgiven,” the dragoon said abruptly, turning back around and settling his chin back on his folded arms, “as long as you spare a moment to give me your consideration before future battles -- and as long as you bother to  _ tell  _ me you’re in danger in the first place, _ before _ I hear it from a third party. I may no longer be the Azure Dragoon, but I’m thought by many to be a rather formidable fighter in a pinch,” he continued, a softness in his voice now that had been absent for days, Aymeric noticed. “Just ask Gaius van Baelsar... ask  _ him _ if you’d want me at your back in a fight.”

“I do not wish to consider the thought of you anywhere near van Baelsar’s back, and I certainly don’t want him anywhere near yours,” the knight said, dropping finally to his knees beside Estinien and running a finger down the long naked length of said back.

“Speaking of my proximity to other people’s parts,” Estinien said, his voice taking on a tangibly teasing lilt. “There is one thing else you’ve yet to mention ‘meric.” His tail gave a quick, almost playful twitch. “Your body, Aymeric...to whom does your body belong, Blue?”

Aymeric did not answer. Instead he swept his hand just underneath the top edge of Estinien’s blanket, smoothing his calloused palm over his lover’s ass, before sweeping the blanket away and bending over his dragoon to plant one firm kiss on each cheek. “There,” he said, “I have now, in fact, kissed your ‘other’ set of cheeks. They are surprisingly smooth, Estinien. Perhaps I should make a habit of it, and thus avoid having my face scratched to bits by your stubble,” Aymeric laughed.

“Hey!” Estinien responded. Then turning to snag his hand around the back of his lord’s neck, he pulled him down beside him and kissed him deeply. “Best not tell Glowing,” he said, emerging from the kiss, “about kissing my nether cheeks. He is like to tell everyone, and at precisely the moment that would cause the most extreme mortification,” Estinien continued. “He is  _ so _ like his father in that way,” the dragoon sighed. “I am entirely ambivalent about the day that child learned to talk, despite how celebrated it was at Fortemps manor. He was...I don’t know...  _ cute _ before then, cuddly. Now he’s a terror when his mother’s not about. You’re as much to blame for it as anyone, Aymeric,” he tutted at his knight.

“Forgive me if, despite my endless affection for him, I do not wish to discuss my godsson right now, Estinien,” Aymeric answered, drawing his hand up and down the smooth silver scales of Estinien’s twitching tail.

“‘Tis as though I had a second cock with the way you’re so fascinated with that blasted thing,” Estinien remarked, but with no real admonishment in his voice.

“Hmmm,” Aymeric hummed in response. “Even you must admit that the change in colour since my dear Greymaulkin’s visit is most fascinating -- no longer Nidhogg’s black, but neither Hraesvelgr’s white, your scales are iridescent in the light, Estinien, refracting rainbows on your skin.” It was true, Estinien thought; ‘twas though the feline had sucked some shadow from his deepest nook and carried it away to be disposed of elsewhere, leaving only an excess of light that played itself out in a prismatic display reflected across his body. His draconic appendages were not erased, not by any means, but they  _ were _ lightened, literally in the case of his scales. 

Ceasing his relentless stroking of the dragoon’s tail, Aymeric rose to his knees to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it to a corner of the tent.

“Arrogant fuck, aren’t you?” Estinien asked, noticing the pendant vial strung around his lover’s neck, hanging down flat upon his chest. “Were you so certain you would prevail against my justified vexation with thee?”

“Hopeful, not certain,” was his knight’s response, his usual grin turning his features into those of a somewhat contrite schoolboy.

“Take me then, hopeful fool -- for that is ever what you’ve been, Aymeric: foolishly hopeful in your behavior toward Ishgard, the future... me,” Estinien said, rolling back from his side onto his stomach, head resting again on his folded arms, but with his eyes closed this time and a dreamy, languid smile spread across his features. “Take me like this... from behind; there is truly no other I’d wish for at my back,” he whispered, resting then as he waited for his lord to ready himself.

Estinien did not wait long; he heard only the “plink” of the glass vial being opened and closed before Aymeric was on him, loosening the ties of his own leather breeches with one hand as he eased Estinien’s legs further apart with his other, positioning his limber dragoon perhaps more fully spread than was necessary to accommodate his own slender hips and gently pushing his shimmering tail to one side.

“I want your weight pressing down on me, Aymeric. Creature of the skies though I may be, I long for you to pin me to earth,” Estinien moaned, overwhelmed, pushing up as best he could on his forearms and wide-spread knees to arch his ass higher, longing for Aymeric to relieve past days of constant worry and hurt.

Aymeric obliged him, pushing himself slowly inside his beloved until Estinien could feel his knight’s sack tickle against his sensitive perineum. He sank down under the comforting weight of Aymeric’s hips then, grounded now, every anxiety silently slipping away. 

Well, not entirely silently, he realized, recognizing as his own the rhythmic, panting gasps vibrating through his ears as he started to push back against his lover.

“Estinien,” Aymeric whispered, startled into a slow thrusting by his lover’s eagerness. “Gods, you’re so  _ good _ like this,” he called out before lying down fully on his dragoon, chest pressed tight to Estinien’s back. Sliding one of his hands underneath his lover’s chest and curling it up over his right shoulder to grip him close, Aymeric slipped the other between the featherbed and his lover’s own body, reaching to palm Estinien’s cock. “Fuck yourself into my fist, love. I wish to feel your flesh quiver as you come,” he hissed directly into the other man’s ear.

“Oh,” Estinien responded, brought near to climax by the mere sentiment and unable now to decide if he wished more to push himself back onto Aymeric’s cock or forward into his hand. Aymeric decided for him, increasing both his speed and the force of his thrustings, pushing Estinien forward into his fist. The dragoon added the motion of his own hips to their mutual forward propulsion then, Estinien into the loving clutch of Aymeric’s fist, Aymeric into the clutch of Estinien, both of them drawing closer.

Aymeric’s sudden fierce bite to the nape of Estinien’s neck finished him, causing him to keen out his lord’s name in stuttering, drawn-out syllables only barely muffled by the hand of his lover _ not  _ still firmly milking the orgasm from Estinien’s cock. Aymeric followed then, spilling into his Silver with a hushed susurration of the dragoon’s name. He made the beginning motions, then, of sliding off Estinien’s back to his lie beside his love.

“No, “ the dragoon pleaded, “stay, please. Stay like this for a moment.” Aymeric sighed, but did as requested, resting his cheek on the back of Estinien’s long neck.

“For all the time we’ve spent within the canvas walls of a tent, this is, I believe, the first time we’ve made love in one,” Aymeric murmured, moving to brush his lips against the emerging plum-coloured bruise he’d sucked into Estinien’s skin.

“Hmmm,” Estinien hummed, enjoying the feel of his knight sprawled over him like a warm, weighty blanket.

“I’m going to fall asleep like this, Estinien,” Aymeric said, yawning, “and then you’ll be pinned in earnest, nigh crushed like a grape ere morn.”

“Fine,” the dragoon answered, tossing Aymeric off as he turned abruptly onto his side.

“Estinien! How beastly!” the knight admonished with a startled yelp.

“ _ That _ , my dearest, you deserve,” the silver-haired elezen laughed, his mirth even reaching his eyes. With deft, quick movements, he used the wool blanket to mop up their bed, then flipped it and wrapped the soft cashmere weave around himself and Aymeric, cocooning them, as they kissed, in this warm moment of comfort -- would that he could stretch it to cover the remainder of their days together.


	10. Orn Khai's Cup of Ishardian Tea, Part 2

“The welcome of my hearth was perhaps a bit too warm,” the tall elezen said as he sat down heavily beside Bloom, acknowledging the cup of cocoa grown cold as it sat untouched beside her. 

“Too sweet,” replied the woman, “ not too warm. I don’t mind heat; in fact, I prefer hot things to sweet,” she continued.

The elezen man stared at her for a moment, trying to read her features to gauge whether or not the connotation to be possibly read within her words was actually intended. No. Her eyes were blank rather than teasing or inviting. She was being literal. How disappointing, he thought.

“It was a kind thought, regardless, Lord Haurchefant,” Bloom Rising continued, readying to lift herself from the stone flagstones before the blazing fire. “Thank you.”

“Don’t leave,” Haurchefant responded, placing his hand on her arm. She jerked back abruptly at his touch, and his eyes opened wide, hurt by her obvious distaste for him. “I’ll go. ‘Tis obvious I’m a bother,” he said, drawing back his hand as if he had extended it into the hearth itself.

“Wait,” she said, reaching out to clasp the retreating hand within her own. 

A spark. A single spark. Hand in hand, palm to palm, a tickle of levin sparked between them, freezing the pair in place for a moment. Bloom’s eyes widened now and her soft lips hung slightly open. The spark had struck her dumb. 

Lord Haurchefant, however, having experienced such moments before -- though perhaps never with such intensity -- knew enough to recognize that the experience of such an immediate and intense connection was entirely alien to the woman before him. He smiled then, his warm, earnest smile, and raised his free hand to clasp Bloom’s between both of his own before drawing her back down to sit before the fire. Settled together, side by side and staring into the flames, Lord Haurchefant Greystone turned to look Bloom Rising straight in the eyes and spoke:

“I would have kissed you then and there, my love, if we hadn’t been in a public room,” he said, still smiling.

“What?” Bloom asked, confused. This was not how it went;  _ this _ was not the right dream. Her memory had surely run amiss.

“Though our first kiss was memorable enough. I suppose I wouldn’t change it,” he continued, disregarding her confusion. “No, not for the world,” he whispered, sighing heavily.

“Haurchefant..” she began, reaching out to touch his cheek.

“There are other kisses for you, beloved. First kisses, e’en, if you would only seek them out,” he continued. “The Archon holds you in the highest regard. He may even be in love with you, my dearest. And between the two of you, there may even be enough pieces of a heart to forge love anew.” Haurchefant paused for a moment, thinking. “And you must realize he sees in our son what might have been for him, making him even more fond. Go to him, Bloom. Let him love you, you and Glowing. He’s waiting, my Blooming.”

“Haurchefant! No, wait!” she cried out, seeing his face start to fade before her eyes. “Haurchefant!” she called, trying to arrest his retreat. “Haurchefant! Haurchefant!”

“Bloom!” Alisaie called, shaking the Roegadyn woman out of her dream. Bloom sat up, panting and sweaty despite the chill of the night. “You were dreaming,” the young elezen said, a look of sympathy spread across her face. 

“Forgive me, Alisaie,” Bloom huffed out, still trying to catch her breath. “I did not mean to disrupt your sleep.”

“Oh, Bloom,” the girl said, throwing her arms around the much taller woman to pull her into a tight embrace. “Stop apologizing. We all know how much you’re still hurting.”

Bloom returned the girl’s hug, surprised at how strong Alisaie had grown while in the First. She supposed the twins were truly growing up. “I think I need some air,” she said, pulling back and shuffling out from underneath her covers.

“Urianger is still up -- still on watch for a bell longer if my chronometer is right,” answered the girl as she looked at the miniaturized device she always carried with her. “Perhaps you might talk to him for a bit,” she said cooly, looking away, non-committal. Bloom thought the girl might even try whistling nonchalantly if the action wouldn’t have made her intentions more obvious.

The slightest of grins crept across Bloom’s lips then, despite how the dream had shaken her. This night was just too  _ absurd _ , she thought, lifting her shoulders in a helpless shrug -- first Haurchefant himself and now Alisaie trying to push her into Urianger’s arms. Well, she had yet to surmise that her fellow scion showed even much of an interest. They were friends, good friends e’en, but hardly more than that. The last she’d known, Urianger was as bereft over the loss of his dearest Moenbryda as she herself was over Haurchefant. She yawned once and pulled herself up to her feet. “Perhaps I’ll try keeping Urianger in company for a bit,” she said to Alisaie, ducking her head out of the tent.

Settling back into her bedroll, her hands behind her head, the elezen girl couldn’t help but grin.

  
  


“Bloom!” Urianger cried, realizing at the moment he let loose the card from his hand that he was sending it toward a friend. “Thy silence didst suggest the approach of an enemy,” he tried to explain as he watched the woman snatch the card from the air. He sighed, relieved. 

Bloom turned the card over and studied it; the features of her face shifted into a look of uncertainty. “‘Tis the ‘Two of Cups,’” she said. “Not one to be dealt in battle, for certain.” 

“Really?” Urianger responded, brows arching in a slightly embarrassed look of surprise. Knowing well the meaning of  _ that _ card, he feared she might think he had chosen it on purpose. 

“I did not intend…” he began.

“Did you not,” she interjected, holding the card up at eye-level between them and turning it around and around in her hand. She stared at it for a moment, using her aether to increase its rotation until it spun atop her index finger, blurring the front and back of the card into one image. 

Then she made her decision. Strange, she thought to herself, that after so long in mourning, the urge to seek something else, something  _ more _ , could descend so quickly.

“If that’s truly the state of your intentions, Urianger, perhaps I should retreat to my tent,” she said, allowing him an awareness of her own resolve.

“Alisaie wouldst be ferocious in her disappointment,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting into an impish grin. “And none of her justified rancor would be directed at thee; I fear ‘twould be all for me.”

“Here,” Bloom said, drawing closer to the elezen to return the card.

“Pray, keep it,” he responded, plucking the card gently from her fingertips before taking her hand in his own, turning it palm up and laying the card flat therein. He placed his other hand over it then, closing her hand between the both of his. 

Bloom started then, the familiar spark she’d felt at Urianger’s touch forcing her into a stark recollection of the memory she’d just replayed in her dream of Haurchefant. A low-burning campfire instead of a blazing hearth and golden eyes instead of sky blue, but the similarity of the moment was unmistakable. She was surprised, then, that she had no desire to recoil from the perversity of this strange deja vu, had not even the desire to dissolve into her familiar sobs at the thought of her loss. Instead, she sought closeness.

“Thou art familiar with its meaning, no doubt,” Urianger said, swallowing hard as Bloom moved close enough that his chin was forced upwards to keep her flashing silver eyes locked within his own golden gaze. “The card’s,” he said, watching as the woman reached out her hand to his face, tracing one of her claw-like nails along the lines of his Archon tattoo.

“I am,” she answered. “It means connection, a union, perhaps even love -- that conditions are favourable for the establishment of all these,” she continued, moving still closer to the man. “Is that true, Urianger?” Bloom asked, pressing the card she still held flat to his tattoo as she took his face between her palms, bending slowly toward the lips he tilted up toward hers. “Are conditions favorable, do you think?” she asked, bending still lower.

A sudden and intensely shrill shrieking broke both the night’s quiet and the nascent lovers’ descent into each other’s embrace.

Bloom looked up, not yet releasing her willing elezen captive. She would have been more startled had she not instantly recognized how, like the cry of an agitated fox, a carbuncle in distress made a sound much like a person screaming. Recognizing it for the warning it was, she quickly scanned the perimeter of the campsite, looking for an imminent breach.

“‘Naught is amiss, I think,” Urianger said, still somewhat breathless. “Methinks he merely detected my distraction and sought to alert me to mine own negligence,” he explained.

“Ah,” Bloom sighed, releasing Urianger and stepping back. She was silent for a moment, crossing her arms and curling into herself, pausing before she spoke. “‘Tis not unfathomable that we should feel...something. My body is like hers; yours is like his. Still, there’s  _ something. _ ..something  _ more _ than that, I think,” she said softly. “But now is perhaps not the time, with Aymeric at risk. Estinien is right about the need for vigilance. Forgive me for interrupting your watch, my friend.” She turned to walk back to her tent.

“Pray wait, my dearest friend, my Blooming,” Urianger said, using the endearment he’d heard others call her to freeze her in place. “Thou art correct in thy assertion that the time is not so propitious as thy card might suggest,” he said, gesturing to the card she still held in her hand. “Ask thyself, though, knowing how thou hast most recently employed thy efforts in the First -- ask thyself, Bloom, if the stars thou hast so recently uncovered in those otherworldly skies would ever have aligned for us.”

She shook her head. There was never time for aught but the next task in the so-nearly- forsaken shard that was the First.

“And as in the First, so it is in our native skies: if their movement in the heavens be not so propitious as we wish, we must, ourselves,  _ force _ them into alignment,” Urianger continued, emphatic. Allow me to shift into alignment with thee, Bloom. Astrologian that I am, thou art the star at the center of my rotation, and have been so for longer than I dare admit.” 

Bloom nodded once. She held up the card in her hand. “I’ll keep this,” she said, “as a promise of new heavens that can make a new earth...someday, at least.” Slipping the card inside her leather bodice, Bloom approached the large flat stone against which the elezen had been resting before she’d interrupted his watch. She held out her hand, offering, and he did not hesitate, taking it quickly within his own before she could possibly withdraw again. Then, side by side and hand-in-hand, they sunk back against stone, peering together into the dark.

  
  


The next day found the party approaching Anyx Trine before nightfall, their tempers, anxieties, even long-enduring sorrows somewhat abated. Orn Khai greeted them promptly, two other dragonets trailing close behind him.

“ _ Estinien _ ,” said the Dravanian. “ _ You are, as ever, in need of my help, I hear _ .”

“I am unaware of being in such circumstances, my friend,” returned the dragoon, smiling at his draconic friend’s unending self-assurance.

“ _ Ah, and you brought your consort with you. He is quite lovely, I suppose, for one of your kind. You are such an unattractive group of creatures as a whole, but he has the clearest of eyes -- so very clear that his heart shines through them _ ,” continued Orn Khai, oblivious as to how his observations might cause offense. ‘ _ How is it  _ **_possible_ ** _ you were able to claim him for your own, Estinien _ ?” the dragonet asked.

“What?” asked Estinien, face flushing.

“Pray allow me to introduce myself,” Aymeric interjected, stepping to stand beside his dragoon and bowing deeply to the young dragon. “I am Aymeric of Ishgard.”

“ _ And I am Orn Khai, son of Vedrfolnir, who bore you upon his back on more than one occasion if I am not mistaken, Aymeric _ .”

“Aye, and I am still greatly indebted to thy sire for it, Orn Khai,” Aymeric responded, trying to avoid laughing at how ruffled the dragonet’s chatter made his beloved.

“ _ Well, I am sorry to say that I am here to do naught but increase your debt to dragon-kind, Aymeric _ ,” said the dragonet, so pleased with himself that he turned a full somersault in the air. “ _ It has come to my attention _ ,” he continued, once upright, “ _ that the Eorzean City-States are coming together to stage a performance of the Starlight Suite Ballet as a testament to their solidarity and shared goodwill. And I must ask, if this is truly the case, why has no one included any Dravanians in these plans? Are we not Eorzeans too _ ?” the dragonet asked. 

Aymeric had to agree that it was a good question.

“We surely assumed the theatricals of mere mortals were beneath the consideration of one such as yourself,” Estinien replied, riled by Orn Khai’s observations about his apparent unworthiness to court one such as Aymeric into directing a touch of sarcasm toward the dragonet.

“ _ And you are correct in that assumption, Estinien...but I find myself feeling indulgent at the moment. Perhaps it is because of the approach of the season of extended darkness, the entire reason for your Starlight Holiday _ ,” observed the young dragon. “ _ Well, we Dravanians are closer to the stars than thee, so I can perhaps see the worth of such celebration, and I wish to participate _ .” 

“You wish to participate?” Aymeric asked, incredulous.

“ _ Indeed, I do.  _ **_We_ ** _ wish to participate. Allow me to introduce my fellow broodlings, Khash Thah and Toh Y Thrah _ ,” continued the dragonet. “ _ We will be performing the “Tea” Dance in your Starlight Suite, surely a relief to you, Aymeric, considering that you and your fellow leaders have failed to find anyone to commit to it _ .”

“Indeed,” said the knight, still somewhat surprised.

“ _ And...Bloom! Is that you over skulking in the shadows _ ,” Orn Khai called, smug enough in his beneficence that he could spare a moment to glance more fully around his surroundings. He had been so intent on communicating his generosity to Estinien that he yet to consider anyone other than the dragoon himself and his startlingly lovely consort. 

“‘Tis me,” answered the Roegadyn woman.

“ _ You have brought a consort too _ ?” the dragonet said, noticing how Bloom held yet another elezen man’s hand tight in her grasp. “ _ Is it perchance mating season for your kind _ ?” The woman immediately dropped Urianger’s hand and flushed a shade impossible to discern on the night-sky of her skin.

“In fact, it is,” replied Urianger, without missing a beat, mirth flashing in his golden eyes “Thou art most astute, as ever are the long-sighted representatives of thy kind,” he continued, bowing deeply to the dragonet.

“ _ Well, then, I shall be quick about this _ ,” answered the dragonet, the first hint of self-doubt creeping into his voice. “ _ I have no wish to witness the amorous encounters of mortals _ ,” he continued. 

“Understandable, indeed,” answered the golden-eyed elezen, catching up Bloom’s hand in his own again and bringing it briefly to his lips for a quick kiss. 

“ _ Oh, and you have brought children of your kind with you as well _ ,” Orn Khai said, noticing Alisaie and Alphinaud. “ _ Come, bring them forward. Young ones will take great delight in our performance, have no doubt _ .” Alisaie laughed out loud, mostly because she knew how mortified her brother would be by being referred to as a child yet again. Her suspicions were confirmed by a glance at Alphinaud’s much-suffering, crest-fallen face. 

“ _ The music, the music _ ,” shouted Orn Khai impatiently to some unseen claw. “ _ Start the music _ !”

From seemingly nowhere, the familiar flute-like tones of the “Tea” Dance rose, despite no woodwinds being obviously present; dragons could, apparently, mimic the sounds of flutes with just their singing voices. At the start of this new kind of dragonsong, Orn Khai and his dragonet companions rushed into motion. Mirroring the melody in their flight, they drew complex ballroom-like figures in the air, circling around each other and flipping somersaults in the sky. Then, as the music rose to its climax, so too did the trio of dragonets, shooting high into the heavens to turn suddenly and dive, swooping close over the heads of their watching audience and causing Alisaie, at least, to let out a squeal of delight. The dravanian rockets then spun to the center of their impromptu stage and chased each other in a blurring circle, before breaking out into a line to face their audience; they bowed, dipping their heads and spreading out their arms in a gesture of welcome, just as the draconic singing came to its end.

Struck silent by the splendour of such an unusual spectacle, the party that had set out from Ishgard merely stared at the young dragons for a couple moments. 

“ _ You may praise us now _ ,” Orn Khai encouraged them, bobbing in the air with his fellow dragonets. “ _ I believe it is the custom to knock thy clumsy hands against one another _ .”

Startled into action, Aymeric led the applause. The others joined in, producing as vigorous a clapping as such a small group could raise.

“Bravo!” shouted the Lord Commander, “how marvelous! We are most grateful for your contribution, Orn Khai,” he continued, beaming. “Pray tell us then, my friend, is there anything we can do to facilitate your travel to Gridania, to secure lodgings for you and your companions?”

A sudden rush of air swept back the fringe from his brow as, seemingly from nowhere, Vidofnir herself thumped down only yalms away from where he was standing. Only Aymeric’s well-developed sense of balance kept him from losing his footing as the ground shook. 

“ _ Greetings, Lord Aymeric _ ,” purred the dragon, her voice seeming to smile in his head. “ _ As you say, consideration must be taken in regard to the supervision of these young ones _ ,” she began. “ _ Orn Khai has his care in his own keeping. He has proven himself capable. The other broodlings have been sheltered, however, never venturing beyond the skies of Dravania. I will allow their participation only if they travel in Estinien’s keeping. I trust him to keep them safe _ .”

Aymeric’s wide smile shifted into an open-mouthed expression of surprise, his ever-present poise shaken. Imagine, he thought to himself, that a man who had once made dragonslaying his sole purpose in life -- had slaughtered enough of dragonkind to soak his own surname in their blood, transforming his very identity -- would now be charged with the protection of Dravanian children as they traveled through Eorzea. That had to mean _ something _ , had to grant his beloved some degree of absolution. Turning, he looked at Estinien; his lover’s eyes were shining with the by-now familiar tears that arose whenever he was reminded of his past -- shining, yes, but above the beginnings of a barely-restrained smile.

  
  


\-------------------------------------

Ravens perched in the contorted branches of the gnarled old tree outside his window. He approved, wished even that he could coax them closer to his hand, a divine proof of the righteousness of his cause. He clung to that idea, that his cause was a manifestation of Halonic will, even as he cast his false monk’s robes into a corner of the room, no longer requiring the trappings of his complex masquerade when not in directly front of the foolish followers he so easily fomented into a near frenzy. It had been so easy, just the word ‘sodomite’ enough to get them writhing and slavering, a physical reaction he was certain spoke to something very much  _ other _ than a repulsion to the idea of two men fucking. He himself could have cared less into whom Aymeric de Borel chose to stick his cock.

He looked again at the large black-feathered birds, attracted to roosting in the high trees planted around the estate by his vintner grandsire, the man who had finally righted the fortunes of his long-beleaguered line. Curse his surely voidkin ancestress who had allowed the proud name of their house to be subsumed into House de Borel -- had allowed Corbeau to be veritably swallowed by Borel -- even with an older brother, true heir to the house, still living. He was a debauched wretch, perhaps, rightly disinherited for speeding through their meager fortunes in his pursuit of pleasure, but he was still very much alive at the date of her marriage.

Well, the disgraced heir’s grandson, the man who had built this house, had turned his ancestor’s fascination with drink into something productive at least, and he himself, the last of their line, was the one to benefit in this generation. That really should have been enough for him, knowing that if he chose to take a wife and continue his line into the future, true-blooded Corbeau would have triumphed for good over Borel with its adopted heir -- and he  _ could _ still, even at fifty-some Summers he  _ could _ still choose to take a wife, to sire heirs. But it was  _ not  _ enough, not even close.

His personal fury was indeed blind, like the insignia of his house. Even when presented with the objective truth of his ascendency over his ancient enemies, he was still incapable of ceasing to persist in his revenge. Well, perhaps that was because the insult to his house was the lesser of his complaints against Aymeric de Borel, the less important of the reasons compelling him to seek the Lord Speaker’s death. He had yet another, _deeper_ injury for which Borel must answer with his tainted blood -- and _soon_ , so very soon.


	11. Snow, or the Lack Thereof, Part 1

“Such a gentleman, that ballet master of yours, Yvonne. And handsome too,” the elezen woman said, mock-fanning herself despite the snow that fell heavily from the skies around her. “I’m surprised Gerard tolerates having him in the house with you; you’ve still a bit of bloom in those cheeks of yours after all, luv.”

Yvonne erupted into laughter as she bent down to help her washerwoman friend haul her heavy bundles into Borel Manor. “He has eyes for none but that Scion grandson of his, poor man. And the boy won’t even acknowledge him. Have time for a cuppa, Genevieve?” the hyuran woman asked, ushering the other woman into a chair at the kitchen table before she bustled over to the kettle.

“Grandson -- you mean the shaggy-looking boy who talks funny? That’s the man’s grandchild? I hadn’t heard,” returned the other woman, clearly waiting to be further informed upon the matter.

“I’m not surprised, dear, with all the rumours flying about of late,” Yvonne said, settling into the chair adjacent to her friend and leaning in confidentially. “He’s a bastard in truth, just like our own boy, but it was the mother who was unfaithful this time and Urianger, that’s the boy’s name, was passed off as a legitimate child. Turns out our Master Pierrault is the father of his actual sire, and as both his son and wife have passed, the boy is his only living connection,” Yvonne finished, her voice dropped to a whisper now, as though wishing to avoid being overheard.

“Cruel then for him to avoid his grandsire, considering,” the other woman clucked in judgement.

“Perhaps,” Yvonne said, thinking. “But from what I’ve seen of him, and he’s become quite close to Aymeric as of late, I think he’s merely frightened.”

“Why should he be afeard?” Genevieve asked, her brows furrowing.

“He’s lost someone, poor boy,” Yvonne said, shaking her head in sympathy. “I think he’s afraid of losing more -- losing what he never knew he had.” She sighed. “That’s what I heard him say to my Aymeric, anyway.”

“Our boy,” the elezen woman said, sighing as she shifted to discussing their favorite subject. “He looks tired, Yvonne. All the whispers in the streets -- how could anyone in his or her right mind believe any of them? That’s the problem, though, eh? Most folk don’t seem in possession of  _ any  _ minds at all as of late, much less right minds. ‘Tis discouraging,” the washerwoman sighed. 

Genevieve was a woman used to filth, used to the ever new and interesting ways Ishgard’s nobility had of making filth and spreading it. After all, it was her job to scrub every trace of it from the very finest of their garments. Yet even  _ she _ was somewhat astonished at the sheer amount of muck currently being raked over their beloved boy’s reputation. “Have you heard the latest?” she asked, eyes more concerned about the pain she was about to convey rather than eager to gossip. Still, her friend had a right to know what was the newest rumour about her dearest boy.

“What is it?” asked Yvonne, her mouth dipping down at the corners.

“‘Tis about his mother again,” Genevieve said, looking down at the table.

“His mother?” Yvonne asked, incredulous.

“They’re calling her a whore now,” continued the elezen woman.

“A whore? Well, that’s a new one,” Yvonne responded, puzzled more than angry. The Archbishop, when he had lived, despite his refusal to acknowledge his son, would have never tolerated rumours that he consorted with prostitutes. Thus, despite having to endure endless chantings of ”bastard” in the schoolyard, Aymeric had yet to be subjected to being called the son of a whore. Yvonne wondered; this new rumour... it was just about implausible enough, after all these years of conjecture about Aymeric’s birth mother, to possibly, just  _ possibly _ , be the truth.

\--------------------------------------

  
  


Artoirel de Fortemps, with the help of his philosopher friend, had uncovered something significant, finally, in his investigation of “The Sightless” and their connection to Aymeric.

“A disinherited son, then?” he asked Foucault, sitting in the stone-walled, cell-like room that served as the philosopher’s chambers.

“Not just any disinherited son, but a disinherited eldest son, Artoirel,” responded the philosopher. “‘Twas a well-deserved disinheriting too. The heir in question was an unrepentant debauchee, and was rapidly progressing through the family fortunes. Still, ‘tis bound to breed a bitter resentment, to have been disinherited, first, and then to see the noble house he had been born to lead essentially dissolved, its ancient name denied continued inclusion in the peerage.”

Artoirel nodded, knowing with certainty that, despite his ambivalence about the privilege accorded him as a noble, he would feel a similar sting at the prospect of House de Fortemps’ dissolution. He swallowed at the thought, took a deep breath, and returned his attention to the professor. “Does the line persist, do you know?” he asked.

“I do not know for certain, as, of course, once House de Corbeau was subsumed within House de Borel, their various lines were no longer included in the peerage,” answered the older man.

“Well, I can’t thank you enough, professor, for your time, your diligence in helping me pursue this matter,” Artoirel said, rising to take leave of his friend.

“How could I choose to do anything but help,” the man asked, pointing to the still noticeable line of faded bruising around his neck. Artoirel observed that, while the philosopher was still clad in his usual regalia, his hood was significantly absent from the ensemble.

“Indeed,” agreed the Count, nodding grimly.

Outside again, absently walking toward the Crozier after having taken leave of his philosopher friend, Artoirel recalled his father’s request that he stop by a certain wine merchant’s shop and sample a vintage recommended to the former Count by a close friend. Edmont wanted something new for the dining table. 

Stepping inside the shop, he was immediately beset by a ruffled clerk, clearly anxious about having to play host to the Count de Fortemps. Settling the nobleman in a private room reserved for tastings, the clerk bustled off to secure the owner of the shop, leaving Artoirel alone with his thoughts for the moment. He glanced around the room, looking at the bottles put out on display, distractedly perusing the various names and images that decorated their labels. 

That’s when he saw it, and, having seen it, kicked himself for not recognizing the connection sooner. But it was such a familiar image, one he’d seen on the table since he was a very young child -- a raven with outspread wings, a strip of white cloth tied around its eyes, perched above the name “Corbeau” printed on the paper label -- that he hadn’t been able to pick it out from the collection of images that served as typical background to his experience. 

He stood up and grabbed the nearest “Corbeau” bottle from a nearby display, waiting only for the arrival of the shop’s owner to take his leave, asking the merchant’s indulgence as he apologized for having to depart so suddenly -- Artoirel knew that a sudden unexplained departure of the Count de Fortemps from the private tasting room where the clerk had set him would almost certainly result in said clerk’s dismissal, and wishing to avoid being the cause of more misery, he assured the merchant that his clerk was not to blame. Then he paid for his bottle in actual cold, hard coin, dismissing the owner’s insistence that he take it as a gift, and stumbled from the shop.

Rushing to the House de Fortemps gardens, he watched impatiently as his father sparred with their fencing master. Still, despite his sense of urgency, Artoirel couldn’t help but feel a touch of pride in the way his father consistently pushed the master into testing him on his weak side; his father worked hard, now that he had more time in retirement, to ensure that his weak side, an impairment received when he himself was a young House de Fortemps knight, grew no weaker with increased age. Edmont de Fortemps wished to maintain his vitality. 

“Father,” he said, as the former Count de Fortemps bowed to his instructor and then turned to hand his foil to his valet.

“Artoirel,” he returned, smiling warmly at first, before noticing the anxiety in his son’s posture. “What is it?” he asked, frowning now. “Has something happened with Lucia, with Aymeric?”

“Not yet,” replied his son. “But I may have discovered a link between the cultists and Ser Aymeric and I could use your insight.”

“Very well,” replied Edmont. “You shall have it with all haste. What is that?” he inquired, pointing to the bottle of wine still clasped tight in Artoirel’s grasp.

“This is the connection,” Artoirel said as he and his father walked, side-by-side, into the manor.

“A bottle of Corbeau merlot has a connection to a fanatical religious cult,” asked the former Count, somewhat incredulous. “Well, I suppose nothing should yet surprise me in connection with Halonic zealotry.”

“What do you know about this wine, Father? I’ve seen it at the table for as long as I can remember, yet I am ignorant of its origins,” Artoirel said, the tone of his voice betraying his frustration at his own ignorance.

“A fine wine, yet not the finest. Good for everyday use and ubiquitous in High House dining rooms as far back as I can remember as well,” Edmont recounted thoughtfully. “It hails from eastern La Noscea, from Wineport in Costa del Sol. I do know that much,” he continued. “I’ve always wanted to take a tasting weekend there, tour the wineries. Alas, I have no one who might wish to accompany me now that your mother has passed.”

Artoirel winced. Was it possible that his father, cultural maverick, social dissident and champion of Ishgard’s emerging republic that he was, had grown lonely since his abdication of his title? He had no time to consider it at the moment, with Aymeric’s life still in jeopardy, but made a silent vow to return to a consideration of the possibility once things were resolved with “The Sightless.” 

“Surely there must be someone who would enjoy a weekend out of the cold,” Artoirel returned weakly. 

His father just sighed and looked to the distance. “‘Tis nothing, son,” focusing again on Artoirel and trying his best to smile with his usual sincerity, “nothing with which you should concern yourself. Perhaps I should follow the Lord Speaker’s example and procure a feline companion for myself.” 

“Or perhaps a dragoon,” said a smooth voice coming from behind them, a voice with just the slightest hint of a Lominsan accent. “I hear they come in the female variety as well, Lord Edmont,” Thancred continued with a smirk. Having finally revealed his presence in Ishgard, the Scion had taken up his former residence in Fortemps Manor.

Edmont barked out a laugh. “I would surely need a dragoon long retired from service if I wished to avoid serious bodily injury,” he said, still laughing. “Good Afternoon, Master Thancred,” Edmont continued, a genuine smile on his face now. The former Count moved closer to his son, then, placing his hand on the new Count de Fortemps’ shoulder. “What’s important now is Lord Aymeric’s well-being. Allow me to relieve you of your duties for the next several days -- I can take your place in the House of Lords for the interim. Go to La Noscea; investigate the Corbeau winery’s connection to these cultists,” he concluded.

“Excellent idea, Lord Edmont. And I shall accompany the Count de Fortemps. “Tis my neck of the woods after all,” Thancred said, beaming. “Only one detail left to consider, Count,” said the white-haired Scion, “airship or aetheryte?”

\----------------------------------------

  
  


“We shouldn’t, Aymeric, not here,” Estinien said as Aymeric pulled him to the ground astride him. “And you’re hurt,” he continued as he slid his fingers amidst the thick, dark curls at the back of his knight’s head and, pulling his hand back, stared at the coating of red blood staining it, Aymeric’s blood. “I need to get you back, get you to the healers.” 

But Aymeric would not let go of the front of his chain-mail coat, holding onto it with a vice-like grip until Estinien acquiesced and sank down into the kiss. Wait though, he thought to himself, his body feeling heavy now, unable to move freely. Why am I wearing chainmail? Where is my proper armor? Where’s my helm? Estinien touched his bloodied hand to his own head, smearing red clots into silver strands, and fingered the leather tie that held his hair back in a tail. A ponytail? He rarely wore his hair up these days and he never wore chainmail and Aymeric was bleeding into dirt not snow. Where was he?

“Estinien,” he heard Aymeric say, but it sounded far-away somehow, or perhaps underwater, although he couldn’t recall ever hearing someone try to speak underwater in order to truly verify what that might sound like. “My injury is grievous, Estinien,” he heard Aymeric say again in that slow, underwater voice. “Kiss me, please. Kiss me again before I…,” Estinien reached to put a hand over his knight’s mouth, disallowing the possibility yet unspoken. His lover’s eyes widened. Lover? That was wrong too. If he was indeed in Temple Knight armor, his hair pulled back in a tail and his helm yet to be attained, then he and Aymeric were not yet lovers at all -- far from it. What was happening here?

As Estinien pondered, Aymeric turned more dry earth to mud with the flow from his unstaunched wound. The knight blinked. “Where are you, Estinien? Where did you go?” he cried. “Don’t leave me, my love,” whimpered Aymeric as he reached a hand out blindly. Estinien caught it up, pressing it tight between his own hands to warm it. “Kiss me, Estinien,” Aymeric pleaded, and Estinien gave in again, kissing him, his own eyes held open to stare into Aymeric’s sightless ones. Thus it was that he bore witness to the light fading from those incomparable eyes at the same time that he felt the pressure of his knight’s lips cease to push against his own.

“Aymeric!” he screamed, pushing off his love’s limp body and shaking him roughly by the shoulders. “Aymeric!” he bellowed as he cradled his beloved in his arms.

Then he was gone. Both he and Aymeric were gone from that familiar cave where they had slain their first dragon together. 

Now he was standing in Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral, the right-hand corner of a coffin perched on his left shoulder. He was walking down the aisle from the alter, the funeral rites concluded, hearing whispers from the pews as he passed. 

“Sole survivor!” they whispered. “Haldrath reborn!” they muttered. “The Azure Dragoon!” proclaimed their susurrations.

No, Estinien thought: no, as he and his fellow pallbearers progressed toward the Vault; no, as they turned to take the long path down the Last Vigil; no, as they passed slowly by Fortemps Manor on the left. “No,” he whispered out loud, as he and his fellow pallbearers mounted up on the dais at the very end of their path, heaved back as one, and tossed Aymeric’s coffin into the abyss. 

That’s where he got them, though, where he shocked them all. He heard their gasps, their shouts, their own cries of “No!” as he dragoon-jumped to propel himself onto the falling coffin’s lid, as he sprawled down atop of it, as he embraced Aymeric amidst the speeding-past skies in the very last moments before they both embraced the earth.

Estinien woke before they hit, shooting up in bed with a force that would surely have woken Aymeric if the knight had not imbibed a little too vigorously at a party he had been required to attend the previous evening. He was still sleeping away, flushed and sweating, the adorable dove-like coo of his snoring calming Estinien with the certain knowledge that his beloved still breathed.

Sweating was not the word to describe what Estinien was doing; enough perspiration dripped from his skin onto the sheets to make him afraid he’d be accused of wetting his bed were he still a boy. His breath was still coming too quickly too. And he couldn’t seem to reign its escalated rhythm back within his control.

“Eth-tinien,” he heard a voice say inside his head only moments before a winged presence entered Aymeric’s bedroom through the window. Closing his eyes in slight exasperation, he wondered for a moment how a creature could manage to lisp when she communicated without moving any part of her mouth, jaw or tongue. 

“Toh Y Thrah, what are you doing in here?” Estinien asked, pulling the covers up to cover his naked chest as the other dragonet, Khash Thah, flapped in through the window to join his cousin.

“We heard you thcreaming,” the youngest of his dragonet charges replied, landing at the end of the bed like a rather large cat and crawling up to curl herself in Estinien’s lap. The dragoon found himself automatically resting his hand atop her head and rubbing the particularly sensitive scales behind her horns. It calmed him, the motion, allowed him to get his breath back under his control.

The added weight of Khash Thah as he clambered onto the bed and crawled up next to his fellow dragonet finally caused Aymeric to stir. “Good Morning, friends,” he yawned out, rubbing his eyes blearily with the knuckle of one hand. “I hadn’t realized we’d scheduled a pajama party for this morning,” he continued with a sleepy laugh. Sitting up in bed now, he turned to give Estinien a morning kiss and felt his left arm brush against something unfamiliar, something heavy and soft, but thoroughly unfamiliar. “Estinien!” he cried out, rubbing the sleep out of both eyes now to ensure his eyes were not deceiving him. 

“I know,” said his lover miserably, covering his own eyes with his hands and curling his body over Toh Y Thrah’s, hugging her close.

“At least they’re not black,” piped up Khash Thah, a hopeful tone in his voice. “I wouldn’t try flying with them though; I’m certain they are very nearly imaginary.”

“And yet we can thee them,” added his younger cousin, making a noise similar to the loud purring of a tiger.

“Estinien,” said Aymeric, softer now, reaching out with both hands to stroke the feathers of what, indeed, were the dravanian-like wings newly sprouted from just inside both of his lover’s shoulder blades. “They’re just like the scales of your tail, iridescent, the colour of light,” he said, voice ringing with delight.

Estinien watched his knight, watched as Aymeric watched him, watched as the dark-haired elezen considered him, trying to gauge how his fluid body’s shiftings underneath the new wings reflected his mood, before raising his eyes (those eyes!) to look deeply into Estinien’s. And Estinien knew then, knew with the very organ in question, that while he was unable to control his own aether enough to eradicate its expression in these strange draconic features, if he were ever to truly witness Aymeric’s eyes fading to dark, he would not hesitate to use what control he _did_ possess over his life energies to swiftly stop his _own_ beating heart.

\---------------------------------------

Artoirel blocked the streak of aether with the flat of his dirk as he scrambled through the twisting halls and staircases of this horror of a house, seeking his exit. Still, despite the duress he was under, hard-pressed by the attack of his pursuers, he remained very cognizant of the object clutched tightly within his hand; he’d been unable yet to pocket it, but very much knew its worth.

“Artoirel, this way!” he heard Thancred call. Halone bless the man! Artoirel had been unaware of his location within the manor once the two men had separated to investigate separate floors. He was certain it had been worth it, though, their temporary separation, as it had allowed the Count to hit paydirt before their swift discovery by the house guards. “Get out your pistol, man!” Thancred urged him as he drew up in step with the Scion. “Lucia demanded you be trained for a reason!” 

Artoirel did as he was told, drawing a different type of steel from his coat as he took the moment to deposit his precious discovery inside his waistcoat pocket, up against his very heart. That heart took off at an increased patter as his pursuers rushed into sight again, Thancred immediately dispatching the nearest with a dagger hurled to the throat. 

“Shoot, Count!” the former rogue compelled him. Again, Artoirel complied, firing at the next monk. As Stephanivien de Haillenarte had discovered about his neighbor ‘cross-the-way during his hastily-scrabbled-together machinist training, the Count de Fortemps had a talent for shooting, hitting the cultist in the chest even while Thancred was pulling him further down the hall by his shoulder.

Pulling a window open wide at the end of the hallway, Thancred glanced out and down, before forcing Artoirel up against the sill. “Jump,” he said. “It’s not far and there’s a soft landing,” he urged, nearly defenestrating the Count as he helped him to step up. Artoirel took a deep breath and avoided looking directly below at the ground. “Go!” Thancred urged, a hand placed at the elezen’s back. He leapt then, flailing his long limbs into nothingness for a moment before splashing down into the softened landing provided by a rather expansive puddle of mud. 

Thancred landed beside him in an instant, keeping to his feet, as to be expected of a trained rogue, but still managing to splash a fresh coating of liquid earth onto the Count de Fortemps’ person. Pulling the thoroughly muddied elezen up by his forearm, the Scion drove them toward the borders of the estate, where they had left their rented chocobos. 

“We’ll have to make for Wineport proper, and fast,” urged the man. “Then we’ll make our escape via their aetheryte -- straight back to Ishgard,” he panted as they reached their birds and mounted up.

“The aetheryte,” Artoirel yelled at his back. “I’ve never travelled by aetheryte before.”

“Would you prefer remaining behind to greet our pursuers?” responded Thancred, sardonic. “You’ll be fine, Count. Just keep breathing. Don’t hold your breath or you’re like to pass out on the flagstones when we reach Ishgard.” 

Artoirel nodded, automatically trying to swallow despite his too-dry throat, nervous at the prospect of aetheryte travel. Thancred moved fast, his skill on chocoback outstripping even Artoirel’s, the Count had to admit. He had to make use of all his own nobleman’s skill, bred to the saddle as he was, to keep even with the Scion. 

“Welcome to Wineport,” Thancred said as they reached the walls, gesturing with an arm to the rows and rows of tiered grape vines crowded within the very boundaries of the town itself. He vaulted from the saddle as soon as they drew within reach of the Chocobokeep and grabbed Artoirel’s mount by the reins, steadying it as Artoirel dropped to the ground. “To the aetheryte,” he said, half-pulling the elezen past townspeople grown curious about Artoirel’s muddied appearance. “Hold your hand out, Count,” Thancred urged. “Feel the pull of the crystal as it attunes your own life energy with its own, with the very star’s, with Hydalyn’s,” he said. Artoirel reached out his hand, felt the aether flow through him from the crystal and back, taking part of him with it.

“I feel it,” he stammered, still short of breath, “ I feel the aether flowing through me.”

“Good,” replied the scion. “Now, think of Ishgard. Will yourself home, Count -- straight to Foundation.”

Artoirel felt himself fading. He glimpsed a starlit space for but an instant, felt himself floating within...before the cold rushed to fill his lungs and he was staring down at the flagstones of Ishgard as he sank to hands and knees and spewed the contents of his stomach on their ice-slicked surface.

“Artoirel!” Thancred cried out beside him, pulling him to his feet and then bracing up a shoulder against the taller man, helping to keep him upright. As Artoirel felt astonishingly dizzy, he was grateful for the gesture. “You did surprisingly well for your first aetheryte trip, Count. At least you’re still conscious,” he laughed. “Though the state of you...” he continued, looking the elezen up and down, taking in the muddied and now vomit-stained state of his fine velvet coat and trousers. “I’ll be surprised if I’m not immediately expelled from House de Fortemps for returning you in such a condition.”

“You forget that I myself would be the one doing the expelling,” laughed Artoirel between his still-gasping breaths. “Besides, it was well worth ruining yet another pair of trousers…”

“Another?” 

“You don’t want to know,” replied the lord, sighing before he took a deep breath. “Look at this,” Artoirel said, drawing out his treasure from his waistcoat pocket and holding it up by its fine golden chain. “Tell me what you see, Master Thancred.”

“A locket,” Thancred said, taking the necklace. “Solid gold. Expensive. A fine piece of work -- from Ul-dah it looks like.”

“Open it,” commanded the Count. 

Thancred complied. Inside was a painted miniature of a young woman -- an astonishingly beautiful young woman -- and the miniature itself was as exquisite a rendering as the beauty it depicted. Thancred took a moment to admire the virtuosity of the painting before he fully considered the image itself. He was instantly stunned. Thancred Waters, Sharlyan Archon, Scion of the Seventh Dawn, survivor of a particularly nasty case of Ascian possession, and savior of worlds was literally stunned; he felt himself unable to move. 

The eyes were a flashing obsidian black, not an ethereal shade of blue, but, really, that was the sole difference. From her curling sable-black hair, to her arched brows, slightly turned-up nose, full lips and high, broad cheekbones that narrowed to a delicately pointed chin, she was the image of Ser Aymeric de Borel. And even the eyes, despite the difference in colour, were the mirror to Aymeric’s: narrow, almond-shaped and as fine a pair as even those possessed by proud Mr. Darcy’s lady-love. 

“Aymeric,” said Artoirel, over Thancred’s shoulder.

“Yes,” replied Thancred. “And from what we can see of her attire....”

“Yes, the fashion of thirty-some years ago,” interrupted the Count in a rare instance of breached manners.

“So not his sister,” sighed the Scion. “Know you the significance of the ribbon, Artoirel?” Thancred asked, fairly certain that the Count was far too sheltered to be in the possession of such knowledge.

“No,” replied the Count. “A red velvet ribbon tied close around the neck? It has a special significance?”

“It does,” replied the shorter man, fingering the choker around his own neck. “A velvet ribbon worn close around the neck, one in this precise shade of deep bood-red, well...I’m not certain how to break it to Ser Aymeric, but it marks this woman as a courtesan... in service to the aristocracy surely, but still,” he paused, unsure of what to say next.

“A kept-woman,” whispered Artoirel, “at the very worst, a person the Lord Speaker’s political opponents would, for all intents and purposes, categorize as a whore.”

“Someone has to tell him,” Thancred said, his voice low. “ _ You _ should tell him, Artoirel, and soon.”

“Yes. Yes I should. But surely the even more pressing matter is discerning why the surviving scion of long-dissolved House de Corbeau would be in possession of a miniature -- a lover’s token, surely -- containing the undeniable likeness of Ser Aymeric de Borel’s birth mother,” Artoirel replied, his mouth set in the grimmest of lines.

\------------------------------------------------

The trip from La Noscea to Ishgard was not short via airship, not by any means, but it was a familiar route at least, one he’d taken since he was a very young boy. And it was quiet this evening, not many fellow travelers. 

He’d seen firsthand the casualties inflicted upon his witless followers, and he knew, from the survivors’ descriptions, exactly who it was who had breached his security. Blast that damned High House Count and his Scion accomplice! Upon a quick search of his personal chambers, he also knew what the men had taken. There was no time now. Artoirel de Fortemps would unravel the connection soon enough, now that he was in possession of the most telling clue. 

So he traveled by Chocobo to the ferry, and took the ferry to Limsa itself. An airship booking at that time of night was easy to procure. As he stepped onto the wooden deck and took up a position in the aft of the ship, he leaned onto the port guardrail, sunk his chin into his hand, stared out at the boundless Lominsan sea, and descended into his memories.

“Come, Emil! Keep up!” shouted the girl, her fine patent leather boots flashing sunlight as they clapped over the flagstones, running fast. Flipping her long, dark curls over her shoulder as she glanced back at him, he noticed her eyes shining with sun as readily as did her boots; they narrowed into cat-like slits as she laughed merrily. “Can you not run any faster? They’ll catch us up for sure,” she teased. Still, she slowed for a moment, waiting for him to come into step, before scooping up his hand in her own and pulling him forward with renewed speed. They rushed into the massing crowd of the Jeweled Crozier, where the black-eyed girl pulled him to duck behind the Carvery.

“Hey now, Aymelie! Mischief! What are ye about now girl?” questioned the butcher fondly. Quickly thereafter, he saw precisely what it was the child and her companion had been up to as three temple knights rushed into the Crozier, armored greaves clattering on the flagstones as they ran past his stand, pushing citizens roughly aside. “Teasing the knights again?” he asked with a loud belly laugh. “What was it this time?”

“Plunking stones down on their heads,” she said, eyes crinkling. “They make such a nice, loud clanking sound when they bounce off their helms.”

“Half-deafen them, it must,” the butcher agreed, laughing again as he sliced some roast beef and handed generous portions to the children. Aymelie ate hers up greedily and with haste.

“Don’t be shy, Emil. Henri’s alright -- he’s nice,” she said tilting her pert little chin toward the butcher. The boy tucked in then, his appetite no longer tentative after all that running in the relative cold of early winter.

“So who's your friend, young Miss Menace? Emil?” asked the big man.

“Emil de Corbeau -- he’s the wine maker’s grandson, visiting all the way from La Noscea,” the girl prattled on, finishing her roast. 

“Corbeau, did you say?” the butcher asked, turning to the boy. Little Emil nodded. “A good collection of wines. Your merlot goes particularly well with roast beef,” he said, gesturing to the large chunk of meat he was currently carving.

“Can you imagine, Henri?” the girl interrupted, jumping to her feet and spreading her arms wide. “La Noscea! All that water, and beaches, and pirate ships, Henri!” she continued, dancing like a small imp around the butcher’s feet. “Emil said he’ll take me there someday, to the ocean. I’ll become a pirate queen, for certain, Henri, and gather a crew of the most bloodthirsty cutthroats you can imagine! I’ll be a scourge of the high seas, Henri! See if I won’t!”

That’s when the butcher’s smile dropped from his face for a moment -- just a moment though; he didn’t want the young girl to see. “I expect you will, my girl,” he replied. “No one would make a fiercer pirate queen than thee, Aymelie.” And he was right too, he knew; no one  _ would _ make a better pirate queen or knight dragoon or whatever it was she might aspire to next week than his fervent little mistress. But he also knew that the granddaughter of Aymette de Cygne, the most renowned and celebrated courtesan in all of Ishgard, expected as she was of coming into a beauty even more lavish than her grandmother’s, would likely ne’er step foot outside the Gates of Judgement. 

The old butcher, supplier of her family’s table for decades past, knew many things about the de Cygne household, among them that Aymarie, Aymelie’s mother, was the current favorite of the Count de Dzemael, and that Aymette herself was rumoured to have once been in service to the very highest authority in the Holy See. Yes, old Henri certainly knew what became of girls born into the tradition revered by Aymette de Cygne. Watching as the current granddaughter of the house cavorted about his feet with her clearly already-besotted companion, he let out a long, sad sigh. He most certainly knew what would become of little Aymelie.

  
  


“I’m to be fitted for my first long gowns on the morrow,” said the girl off-handedly, tickling her baby brother’s tummy as he stared up at her and giggled.

“What?” asked Emil, instantly alarmed. He  _ knew  _ what long dresses meant for Aymelie. Visiting Ishgard again, as he did once a moon, he and his grandsire, who had his own past acquaintance with the matriarch of the household and was always welcome at her home, called on the de Cygne family as soon as their proper business was concluded. Emil was growing too and would soon be expected, like his young friend, to take on more responsibilities within the family business. His grandfather required he stay close now when he met with the various wine merchants who carried Corbeau wines, instead of immediately bolting off toward Aymelie the minute they’d stepped through the Gates of Judgement. 

“Maman has been pensioned off now, Lord Dzemael wishing to distance himself from his ‘mistake,’” she said indicating the infant with her hand. “It’s a handsome settlement; along with Grandmother’s income, it provides us with enough comfort to allow my own training to commence.”

“Training? Training for what, Aymelie? I had thought you wished to avoid following in your mother’s footsteps,” Emil said, his voice strained.

“I had,” said the girl, her flashing black eyes growing even more luminescent with light-reflecting tears. “But that was before...” she sighed, gesturing again to the babe. “If I flee, it will fall to Aymeril.  _ She _ will wait like a spider in the web...what’s fifteen more years compared to preserving the glorious tradition of highborn whoredom?” she asked, the bite of her sarcasm contrasting with the tears that streaked down her perfect cheeks. “‘Tis a far-worse fate for a boy, Emil,” Aymelie continued, “more hidden and shameful, and because of the subterfuge, much less safe.”

“I will protect you then,” the boy said, pounding his fist to his heart. “We’re rich. We have a manor house. When the time comes, I will simply submit  _ myself _ as your patron,” he said. “That wouldn’t mean anything, of course,” he was quick to assure her, “wouldn’t mean you would....I mean, we wouldn’t have to…” He swallowed anxiously.

Aymelie laughed then, beaming through her tears at her friend’s awkward earnestness. “It’s a nice thought, Emil, but I’m afraid grandmother would never accept you. You’re not a highborn, and, thus, unacceptable as my patron.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Aymelie,” the boy said, growing excited. “I am in fact one of only two remaining scions of House de Corbeau. My grandsire’s own grandsire was the eldest and the heir to the house, but was disinherited due to his drunkenness and debauchery. When his sister, the new heiress, married, she chose to let the name die out, allowing herself to be subsumed into House de Borel.”

“House de Borel?” Aymelie asked, resting her slender hand on the boy’s forearm. He startled slightly at her touch. The girl was familiar at least with House de Borel if not with House de Corbeau; it was a minor house, but still highborn. Perhaps she could suggest the connection to her Maman, a simple, pretty woman who really wanted nothing more than for her daughter -- and now her new son -- to be happy. And her grandmother might be more receptive to the idea of Emil becoming her patron if the idea was presented by Aymarie, particularly if it could be proven he had a connection to more than one highborn house. Aymette had always exhibited a tenderness toward her own child that she most certainly did not extend to her grandchildren. “I wonder…” Aymelie said out loud, her obsidian eyes flashing to light again with but the smallest kindling of hope.

  
  



	12. Snow, or the Lack Thereof, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a moment of NSFW content in the Aymeric and Estinien section, just a moment or two though.
> 
> I've read this chapter through about seven times in the last couple of days, but it still feels kind of rough to me, perhaps because I wrote it kind of quickly. Anyway, if you notice any typos or errors, I would be really grateful if you would let me know about them. Goodness knows I cannot go a chapter without spelling some poor Eorzean's name incorrectly, lol. Names!!!
> 
> And if anyone on Aether Data Center wants to visit Bloom, she has a house in the Lavender Beds on Fairie server, Ward 9, Lot 7. She just finished hanging the many, many Goobue wreaths she acquired last Starlight!

Aboard the airship now, high above Eorzea and all its woes, sailing toward Ishgard, the source of his own deepest sorrows, he continued his reveries.

He had not the slightest idea why she would call for him, now that everything was over and done, now that she was lost to him forever. And they had been so close! But it did him no good to continue his nigh-endless mourning over the loss of her, not when she had called for him, not when she still needed him for some reason, whatever it was. ‘Twould not do to allow her to see him sunk so low.

“Emil,” he heard her black velvet voice call out to him from the shadows as he passed the old butcher’s stall in the Crozier. He felt her take his hand then and jolted hard at the touch of her bare skin to his; she was not wearing gloves. “Come inside, Emil,” she said, drawing him into the Charcuterie located behind Henri’s stall. The man himself was there, greyer and exhibiting the drawn thinness of age that looks so askance on men who had been given to a jolly rotundity in their prime. Putting a finger to his lips, the butcher led them by candlelight to his upstairs parlour before taking his leave of the pair, a look of resigned sadness spread across his features.

As he sat down to face her, she drew the hood from her head. Even in only the dim candlelight, he could see something was amiss. Beautiful she was, as ever -- incomparably beautiful even -- but thinner than usual, her skin pale and ashen rather than its usual glowing gold. 

“He is very, very angry with me, Emil,” said the girl, for a girl she still was, not many moons past eighteen Summers. “I find myself soon to be in possession of yet another ‘mistake’ of my household, and since _he_ can never be allowed to have made a mistake, I’m afraid the fault for it has been wholly attributed to _me_.”

“I’m not certain I understand you, Aymelie,” answered the young man, confused. He had yet to learn precisely who her patron was, the man who had stolen her out from underneath him right as the contract naming Emil as her patron was about to be signed. He knew, however, that for Aymette to have forsaken the Corbeau riches, the interloper would have had to have been extremely powerful. Emil had the sickening suspicion that he was likely a high-ranking member of the priesthood itself.

She stood up then and removed her cloak entirely, letting it drop to the floor. Immediately, her hand went to her lower abdomen, cradling the heavy roundness. Emil felt his eyes widen as the realization spread through him: his beloved girl was at least seven moons gone with child. 

“He flutters,” she said softly, not looking up at her friend, “like there’s a moth inside, dancing inside me ’round a candle’s flaming wick. Little flutterer,” Aymelie whispered, rubbing her abdomen tenderly. She was crying now, tears dripping down onto her belly.

“A boy, then,” Emil asked in his most tentative, gentle voice. “You think it a boy?”

“I _know_ he is,” she said, her head suddenly snapping up to look at him, eyes flashing as they did when she was a very young girl. “And his name is Aymeric...or it will be if I’m left alive long enough to see him take his first breath.”

“Aymelie!” Emil shouted, shocked.

“Shhhh!” the girl replied, placing a finger to her lips. “As I said, he is _very_ angry with me, Emil. I’ve yet to see if his anger extends to the child, but I doubt _I_ will be suffered to live long past my delivery of him,” she explained, suddenly weary, as though resigned to her fate. “That is why I so wished to meet with thee this one last time, Emil, this one last time before I seek Halone’s Blessed Halls. I wanted to give you this,” she continued, drawing a fine golden chain from her pocket. A locket, solid gold and of great workmanship and expense, was attached to the chain. Opening it, she gave the locket over to him. 

Emil could do nothing to repress the sob of utter anguish that escaped from his throat when he looked at what was inside. 

“Grandmother had me sit for the finest miniaturist in Ishgard,” Aymelie explained, gesturing to the tiny portrait of herself contained within the pendant. “She had thought it would make a fine present for...for my patron, but I am certain he would have no desire for it now. He would likely cast it away. So I trust it to you, my love.”

Emil looked at her, stunned.

“You doubt it then, dearest friend?” she asked. “You doubt my love for you? I have...” she stopped for a moment, her voice choked out by emotion, before beginning again, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember, Emil.”

“I would have made you my bride,” he stuttered, tears streaming down his face, refusing to be denied now.

“I know,” she replied, reaching to pull Emil to his feet, to pull him close to her, to pull him into their first and only kiss. “Watch out for Aymeril, Emil, for Aymeril and Maman. Protect them as I would have, “ she said, breaking the kiss after a long moment and backing up to draw her cloak from the floor. She threw it ‘round her shoulders, drew up the hood, and then turned and was gone from the room.

And he had stood there, staring after her, too overwhelmed to move for at least the space of a bell.

In all the years that followed, he had done as she asked, had honored her final request of him. He had made certain Aymeril was kept from a life of whoredom, had kept a watchful eye on simple Aymarie, ensuring her taste for comfort did not over-extend her income. He had even gloried in the news of Aymette’s eventual death, uncorking a particularly cherished vintage on the eve of her funeral -- not something Aymelie had specifically requested, of course, but a gesture he thought she would have appreciated. He had done all of these things, and yet, he could not bring himself to feel anything but hatred for the child of the man who had ordered her execution... even if that child was also hers. She had never asked it of him, asked him specifically to extend his protection of her family to her son. Perhaps she had simply taken it for granted that he would; knowing how much she loved the child, she had reasoned he too would love him. But he could not. 

Emil de Corbeau, as he had hundreds of times before, stepped off the airship onto the cold flagstones of Ishgard, cast still in shadows at this time in the morning. He had come to right the injustices committed against him: to reclaim the exquisite miniature of the woman he had never, ever stopped loving, not for one Halone-blessed moment, to oversee the final dissolution of House de Borel for its long ago subsumption of House de Corbeau, and to take the life of a man whose very existence stripped from him the potentiality of ever mingling Aymelie’s blood with his own. He would have Aymeric de Borel’s blood in recompense for that of _his_ child, his and Aymelie’s -- a child disallowed the chance to come alive.

\---------------------------------------------------------

  
  


The Sultansworn contingent that had accompanied Nanamo to Ishgard cluttered the studio with their heavily armored bodies, refusing to move one ilm beyond the proximity they were required to keep between their liege and themselves. Pierrault had resigned himself to the inconvenience, managing a run-through of the party scene without yet having a single child smack head-first into a heavily-polished chest-plate, and there were quite a few children assembled here today -- certainly all the Ishgardian participants -- though not the full roster he’d have in Gridania. 

At the moment, he was endlessly grateful for Alisaie and her child-wrangling propensities, and hoped she’d continue the practice during the full cast rehearsals scheduled for the days before the performance; though she might have to cajole her brother’s assistance once all the children performers were assembled. Right now, Alphinaud was sitting cross-legged on the floor, absently perusing some sort of scholarly text.

“Lovely, Your Grace,” he called to the Sultana, turning his attention to Nanamo. The diminutive woman joyfully pirouetted around her towering elezen partner as Drosselmeyer presented Clara with her shiny, Clockwork Nutcracker. She was really quite a good little dancer, Pierrault thought to himself.

“Not so much with the cape, Urianger,” he gently admonished the man, noticing that his flourishing of the heavy, velvet garment was starting to border on the histrionic. “Better, much better,” Pierrault encouraged him as he let up a bit on the cape-swishing, “now go get the box.” The Ballet Master stepped back to watch as the younger elezen withdrew to the space marked “offstage,” and returned wheeling a large wooden box made up to look like a wrapped Starlight package. Urianger tapped on the box once, and Bloom Rising burst from it, her clockwork key revolving at her lower back. “Nice, Bloom. Remember to keep the elbows bent at a right angle, my dear” Pierrault called. 

He had to admit, only two weeks out from the actual performance date, the Starlight Suite was coming together as he had never seen in a production of such magnitude. Well, of course, even _he_ had never seen a production of quite such huge proportions, but he’d been part of enough performances, both large and small, that he was taken aback by a distinct lack of the usual disasters that dogged such productions. 

There had been few injuries other than the initial one where Ser Estinien had landed on his partner, breaking several of Lord Aymeric’s ribs. But Aymeric had been quickly righted and the two of them dancing, well, in all his long career as both dancer and ballet master, he had yet to see a more magical pairing; they were luminous together, so much in love that the dancing itself was elevated by the depth of their shared sentiment.

“How was that, Master?” asked Bloom, making Pierrault aware of his lapse in attention. 

“Ah, my dear, you always dance divinely,” he replied, thanking Thaliak himself that it was Bloom’s performance he had missed. It was true; she _did_ dance divinely and was among the very least of his concerns. 

In fact, the Ballet Master had few concerns about the quality of dancing itself; the Eorzean Alliance was proving a rich ground for the recruitment of ballet talent. If anything bothered him, it was the threats that surrounded the production, threats to all the Alliance leaders, but specifically Ser Aymeric. He had heard through the grapevine that all their remaining face-to-face meetings had been cancelled due to the nearly insurmountable security concerns involved in having all four leaders congregated in one place -- concerns the various security forces in question would rather focus their energies upon addressing in regard to the performance itself, when a coming together of the Alliance leaders was inevitable. 

But Pierrault should have known that a production such as this one, where all the City-States came together, could hardly avoid some degree of politicization. Certainly marginalized factions in each of the participating nations -- or those who perceived themselves as marginalized -- would always do what they could to turn such a publicized spectacle to their advantage. For now, all Pierrault could do in the face of such antagonisms was focus on the production, gird himself against the probability of last minute injuries and illnesses, and concentrate on doing everything in his power to ensure that the show would, in fact, go on -- well, all that of course, _and_ call a break for his dancers to take an early lunch. They had been rehearsing since well before the ninth bell of the morning.

\------------------------------------------

Artoirel hurried to the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly. An all-night session perusing decades-old public records with Professor Foucault had unearthed the most startling of revelations: a document that proposed one Emil de Corbeau, last remaining scion of House de Corbeau, which had formerly been subsumed by House de Borel, to become the formal patron of Aymelie de Cygne, the latest product of the most highly revered family of courtesans in Ishgard. The contract had even been dated -- dated, but never signed, never ratified.

With just a bit more digging, Foucault had learned that Emil was the great, great grandson of the disinherited Corbeau heir, and the grandson of the man who had started the Corbeau winery, _and_ that he had taken over the management of the winery upon his grandfather’s death. It was _his_ manor that he and Thancred had infiltrated near Wineport. _He_ was the man behind “The Sightless.” It made sense, Artoirel thought as he hastened his steps toward the Congregation, toward Lucia: Emil was rich, powerful, and had connections to powerful and rich men, like Lord Lolorito in Ul’dah. And while it seemed, from the intelligence Lucia had received, that Emil had never revealed himself to the Syndicate leader, he certainly knew how to manipulate him to get the support he wanted for his sham cult. 

That fact, at least, seemed incontestable -- the cult itself was most certainly a sham, a red herring to misdirect attention away from the man’s true identity and purpose as it simultaneously provided him with unquestioning and devoted manpower. While Halonic, Corbeau had never been known for being particularly fervid in his worship of The Fury, certainly not the type to commit himself to the truly blind devotion practised by his followers. 

And Aymelie de Cygne, the courtesan somehow denied him...could she possibly be Aymeric’s birth mother, the woman whose exquisite features were immortalized in the locket’s miniature?

Artoirel was startled by something vibrating up against his sensitive ear. Ah, he thought, the linkpearl! He had completely forgotten about the small device Thancred had given him, insisting that it would provide them with the means of instant communication should one of them find something pertinent to the inquiry.

“Artoirel,” the elezen heard in his ear, “Count de Fortemps, are you there?”

“I’m here,” replied the Count, a little too loudly, unused to the device.

“No need to shout, my friend,” Thancred replied, sounding somewhat pained. “Find anything…”

“The Congregation! Meet me at the Congregation! I know who is trying to kill Aymeric, Thancred!” Artoirel interrupted, his voice still too loud over the device, but out of urgency now, rather than unfamiliarity.

“I’ll meet you there!” returned the Scion and Artoirel heard the distinct “click” of the device turning off. He looked around. It was nearly noon and the bustle in the Crozier was pronounced. Still, despite the damage it might temporarily cause his reputation, the Count de Fortemps took off like a boy through the market district, dodging housewives and gently pushing aside citizens seeking their midday meal, in his attempt to reach Our Congregation of Knight Most Heavenly with all the haste of which he was capable.

\---------------------------------------------

Aymeric sat up in bed, his back against the pillows, staring down at the face in his lap. For once it wasn’t even Estinien’s, laying his head back as Aymeric stroked his slender fingers through that mass of magnificently snarled hair, inevitably snagging them in tangles and then gently trying to pull out the knots without making his lover’s lips press tight in a pained grimace. 

Apparently, _this_ face, the one in the locket he held open in his lap, was the face of his mother. His birth mother, of course -- certainly Lady Borel had been his real mother, and a very fine one at that. But still… he had always wondered, and there was no denying the resemblance; aside from the colour of her eyes, her features were a mirror to his own. He looked at the red velvet ribbon around her neck, instinctively brushing his fingers across the space on his neck that a similarly-placed ribbon might cover. Aymeric the “Bastard” Blue, as he’d been called so often that the sting of it mellowed, was familiar enough with the illicit sexual practices of so-called highborn Ishgard to know precisely what that particular adornment signified.

“Aymeric,” he heard Estinien say and looked up. He had been so engrossed in the portrait, he hadn’t even heard his lover return from the bath. A plush, white towel slung low on his hips so his tail could swing loose behind him, and his long, wet hair still dripping rivulets down his naked back, Estinien stepped quickly toward their bed and sat down gently beside him. “Come now, love,” he said, reaching into Aymeric’s lap to snap the locket shut, releasing his knight from the black-eyed gaze that seemed to hold him frozen in place. 

He set the pendant down softly on Aymeric’s bedside table. “You must get dressed, Aymeric, even if you’ve no time to wash now,” he said, brushing his hand through Aymeric’s tousled mess of curls. He looked sharply at the dark-haired man for a moment, then ran that same hand across his cheek, feeling the prickly beginnings of stubble. “Who’s not grooming himself properly now, my love?” Estinien asked as he leaned over to press his lips against his knight’s still-troubled brow.

Aymeric suddenly darted up to catch Estinien’s lips with his own, altering the temper of the kiss as he snatched the towel from around his dragoon’s hips and pulled him to straddle his lap. Grinding his still blanket-covered hips into Estinien’s exposed cock caused a gasp of only barely-contained pleasure to escape from the silver-haired man.

“Ah...Aymeric, no,” Estinien said, the way his own hips continued to answer Aymeric’s insistent rhythm belying his words. “We’re expected at the Congregation. We haven’t had much time to rehearse since our return from Dravania. Your duties as Lord Speaker…”

“Sod my duties as Lord Speaker, as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, as Ishgard’s Lord of Lord’s,” Aymeric panted out, grabbing Estinien’s cock and stroking it fully hard.

“Aymeric!” Estinien cried out, giving in; he shifted his body to crawl under the covers, pressing his bare skin against his lord’s as he rested his back against the pillows and urged the other man to settle himself between his outspread thighs.

“AVERT THY EYES, YOUNG ONES!” 

Estinien felt the words flood his head before he had fully deciphered their meaning. Then, pushing a still-eager Aymeric off to his side, he scrambled to pull the covers fully over the both of them. “Orn Khai!” he shouted. “What are you doing in here?”

“Why are _you_ engaging in such...amorous indulgences with your consort when we are expected by Master Pierrault in but a quarter of a bell?” rejoined the dragonet, incredulous. “I have come to believe, from prolonged exposure to you, Estinien, that you mortals are incapable of controlling your base desires.”

“Thtop being tho mean, Orn Khai,” Toh Y Thrah admonished. “Ethtinien loves Aymeric,” she asserted before thumping down on the bed and crawling up to snuggle in between the elezen pair.

“You’ll fall in love someday, Orn Khai,” chimed in Khash Thah, “you will take a pretty consort, just like Estinien, and then you won’t be able to control yourself either.”

“Hey,” protested Estinien from the bed.

“I will _never_ take a consort,” Orn Khai replied. “I intend to stay free!” he proclaimed loudly, turning a boisterous somersault in the air.

Aymeric suddenly laughed and Estinien turned to look at him. It was the first time since Artoirel de Fortemps had presented Aymeric with both the locket and his explanation of its significance -- days ago now -- that the dragoon had been treated to the sound of his love doing much other than sighing at the miniature located therein. Aymeric was smiling too, a smile that illuminated his weary, bloodshot eyes, and _that_ alone would have made Estinien grateful for the dragonets’ intrusion, however mortifying.

“Come, Estinien,” Aymeric said as he rose from the bed, still naked, flushed, and somewhat winded, and strode toward his wardrobe, completely unabashed. “No more lazing about in bed. We will surely be late as it is,” he continued. Estinien propped himself up on his elbows, then, a half-smile on his face as he watched Aymeric dressing. So heartened was he by the change in his knight’s mood that he declined to remind Aymeric that it was not a dragoon who was to blame for the tardiness resultant from lazing about in bed all morning.

\---------------------------------------------------

Slumped down with her back against the stone wall of the studio, leaning shoulder to shoulder against Urianger, her head tilted to lightly rest on his and her knees scooped tight to her chest, Bloom Rising watched as Master Pierrault recommenced his rehearsal after the midday meal break. Positioned as she was, tight up against the over-sized gift box from which she herself had sprung in the First Act, she couldn’t fully see the room, but that didn’t particularly matter to her; being half-sunk in the shadows, barely visible to the invariably curious gazes of onlookers, was one of her favorite places to be. That Urianger was hard-pressed against her other side just added to her sense of contentment; she enjoyed the feeling of being hemmed close in, made miraculously small somehow, and he was, perhaps, one of only three individuals she had ever wished to include inside the smallest space in which she could fit her long, long legs, her too-broad shoulders and massive, arching demon horns. He was one of the very few whose presence within her carefully cultivated boundaries did not make her feel her solitude more keenly.

Glancing at Urianger’s face, she realized his eyes were closed, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. Apparently he enjoyed her presence enough to fully relax himself into her. His chest rose and fell with slow deep breaths and Bloom wondered, indeed, if he’d gone lax enough to fall asleep. She smiled to herself a little at the trust inherent in the gesture. Letting her lingering eyes range from the elezen’s face, particularly that dark, archon tattoo she so longed to trace again with her nails, she watched as the Sultansworn filed into the studio again, close on Nanamo’s heels, and arranged themselves around the studio, resuming the positions they’d held that morning. She continued to watch as Pierrault instructed the members of his SEED corps, who had recently arrived from Gridania, adjusting the arms of one lovely elezen woman so that the candle she bore aloft in outstretched arms was even more fully aloft, held high above the head upon which her golden halo headpiece rested. The Master was running “Angels” now, nodding and smiling as Nanamo and Alphinaud, her Nutcracker Prince escort, wove and spun through the rows of candle-bearing seraphim skimming the floor on their toes. 

Bloom noticed movement in the corridor outside the open door of the studio and spied Estinien, his arm looped protectively around Aymeric’s waist, greeting Artoirel, Lucia and Thancred. She noted that his brow grew more creased with consternation the longer he conferred with the group. The three dragonets, Orn Khai at their head, briefly blotted Estinien from her gaze as they flapped into the already-crowded room and hovered in mid-air. Well, Bloom thought, perhaps the young dragons were curious about the other performers in the production in which they had sought to be included -- perhaps they were curious about the community of Eorzeans among which they apparently wished to be numbered. That was to be expected. A moment later, Thancred entered the studio.

“Bloom,” he said, nodding and granting her a glimpse of his trademark roguish grin, before sliding down the wall to rest next to Urianger. “Asleep, is he?” asked the man, smirking a little.

“Asleep? Nay, my friend. Merely resting mine eyes,” responded the elezen, not bothering to open said orifices. 

Thancred laughed and Bloom noticed as Alisaie, bent low to not obstruct the view of any of the other numerous observers pressed flat against the studio walls -- and keeping close to the walls herself -- crept over to drop down beside Thancred.

“Scions assembled,” she said as she crossed her legs, “or very nearly so.” 

Bloom was about to respond when her gaze was caught again by the group gathered in the corridor outside the studio. She watched as Aymeric slumped back against Estinien, his head resting against his lover’s shoulder as the dragoon’s arm tightened further around his middle, clutching him close. Artoirel’s eyes widened as the silver-haired elezen repeatedly poked his pointed finger sharply into the Count’s chest, clearly agitated by whatever it was they were discussing, until Lucia drew between the two, her armor-plated chest blunting the painful ire of Estinien’s pointed poking.

“What’s going on out there?” Bloom asked Thancred, gesturing toward the corridor.

“‘Tis…” Thancred began, stopping to look as he noticed Aymeric forcibly disentangle himself from Estinien’s grip and move to enter the studio. The dragoon was apparently too distracted by the continued fervency of his conversation with Lucia and Artoirel to keep Aymeric within his grasp. “‘Tis about the threat to Aymeric’s life,” he began to inform the other Scions, stopping as Aymeric noticed the group of them settled against the wall together and started toward them, smiling.

The view from inside the box was limited at best. Several small, perfectly-round air holes punched through the sturdy wooden planks provided his only glimpse of what was occurring outside his hiding place. And it was dark in here too, closed-in, claustrophobic. He’d sooner be done with it, done with it all, the essential blood-letting and his inevitable subsequent destruction at the hands of the many, many potent warriors assembled inside the room. Emil de Corbeau had no illusion that he would get out of this alive. 

Perhaps Aymelie would be waiting within Halone’s Halls. Though, admittedly, he’d be a fool to expect a warm welcome there, considering he’d be arriving directly after her beloved son -- a son which he himself had dispatched to his angelic mother’s embrace. Still, blood must have blood. Thordan had claimed Aymelie’s and he would claim the very last trace of Thordan’s blood that was left in this world.

Or at least that’s what he’d been thinking when the boy entered the room -- blood for blood, a true recompense. But then he saw Aymeric, his glowing golden skin flushed pink across his perfect cheekbones with the very blood Emil wished to claim from him, and for the very first time since he’d discovered the true identity of Aymelie de Cygne’s patron, had learned of her execution at the order of that patron -- a rising star among the bishops of Ishgard -- and had discerned that her child, her Aymeric, had been spared, adopted out to House de Borel, nonetheless, Emil de Corbeau faltered in his objective. 

The boy was the image of her, Aymelie brought again into breath and blood. His smile had her warmth, his step, her vivacity, and his eyes flashed life. But wait; there was something amiss there -- something off about the eyes. Ah, that’s what it was of course, Emil thought. _Those_ were the cold, clear eyes of his father, the apostate, false prelate, executioner of all that he had ever held dear. Emil could feel his fortitude returning, the heat of anger speeding through his limbs. He watched as Aymeric turned to the Scions, unarmored chest fully facing the box, and recognizing his moment, Emil de Corbeau struck.

“DANGER!”

“DANGER!”

“DANGER, ETHTIEN!”

Estinien heard the desperate voices of the dragonets flood his head as he spun toward Aymeric, and in that very moment he did so, many things happened at once. The Sultansworn rushed to surround a bewildered Nanamo, for instance, and Orn Khai instinctively stretched out his immeasurably inadequate wings in an attempt to shield his younger kin. But of those many things happening simultaneously around him, Estinien was aware of only three: an unfamiliar elezen bursting out of the large, wheeled prop box used in Act One, pointing a pistol at Aymeric’s chest and pulling the trigger without the slightest hesitation, a near-instantaneous flash of bright violet light revealing Ballet Master Pierrault to have suddenly appeared standing directly in front of Aymeric, and the ball of lead discharged from the assailant’s pistol hitting the Ballet Master squarely in _his_ chest. Estinien stared so intently into Aymeric’s wide-open, horrified eyes -- in terror of seeing the light leak from them -- that he was only tertiarily aware of Pierrault’s body rebounding off Aymeric’s chest and crumpling to the ground at the Lord Commander’s feet.

\------------------------------------------

Urianger sat in the infirmary room, the very same one into which he’d awoken when rescued from the blizzard -- the very same one in which the man lying in the bed beside him had revealed that he was his grandsire -- and stared down at his hands. Teleportation magic, he thought, reaching those hands up to rub his tired eyes. If there had yet been any doubt as to the veracity of the older man’s claims, _that_ put an end to them. Urianger had only managed it a couple of times, and only when he had not been trying, when he’d been preoccupied with something else -- like on his first night with Moen -- but there was no denying he could, on occasion, blink himself instantly from one point in space to another. Apparently it ran in his family. 

He rested his hands in his lap again, then opened them as his grandfather’s violet-coloured fairy came and, hovering over them for a moment, settled herself on his up-turned palms. She looked despondent, tiny lilac tears falling like crystals down her cheeks. Urianger was supposed to be good with fairies; he’d certainly had enough practice on the First. So, slowly, trying not to startle her, he lifted his hands level with his heart, holding her there as he concentrated on using his own aether to enfold her in a warm, numinal embrace of his own. 

The fairy seemed to appreciate the gesture, closing her eyes and seeming to nuzzle against the press of his aether, then adding her own aether to envelop them both in a violet-coloured halo of light. 

Urianger sighed heavily, feeling as though he could finally let go of those moments that surrounded the attack -- his horror at seeing Corbeau rush Aymeric, his astonishment at Alphinaud’s swift summons of his carbuncle and the creature’s subsequent snatching of the weapon from the enraged elezen’s hands before he could fire again, and the strange sense of possessiveness that arose in his chest as he watched Bloom have to use all of her substantial strength grappling Estinien to the ground in order to keep him from choking the life out of Corbeau with his bare hands. He had spent precious seconds watching all of this unfold, had continued watching as Thancred subdued Corbeau, before his own benumbed conscience nudged him into whipping out his Star Globe and joining Alphinaud, Alisaie and the man’s own distraught fairy companion in trying to save his Grandfather’s life.

“Urianger,” he heard his name whispered softly, and lifted his head. It was Aymeric; he hadn’t heard him come in. “Forgive me if I’m disturbing you, my friend. I just wished to check on Master Pierrault’s condition.”

“‘Tis dire still,” Urianger said, again sighing heavily. “Tentative. But if he surviveth the night, Captain Abel is hopeful. _I_ am hopeful. Corbeau was aiming directly at _thy_ heart, but thou, Aymeric, art several ilms shorter than my grandsire in stature, and, thus, the projectile missed _his_ heart,” he explained.

Aymeric nodded solemnly. “May I,” he asked, gesturing toward the chair on the opposite side of the bed from where Urianger was seated.

“Of course,” the other elezen answered. His grandfather’s fairy moved from his hands then, repositioning herself on his shoulder. 

“Oh my dear, dear friend,” Aymeric spoke softly, taking Pierrault’s hand into his own and bowing to kiss it, “you have saved my life today, and for that I will ever be grateful.”

Knowing that his grandfather might yet be able to hear, Urianger was thankful for Aymeric’s sentiment. “What hath become of Corbeau?” he asked, suddenly struck by the thought.

“In the cells at the Congregation, though we’ve tried to make him as comfortable as possible. Perhaps he would be better off here in the infirmary,” Aymeric replied. “Artoirel and Lucia wish to question him. They say we must uncover what has become of the rest of ‘The Sightless’ -- we must learn if the cult is likely to persist under new leadership or simply fade, bereft now of its central source of both funding and inspiration. But the man himself has lost his mind entirely, now. He just sits in a corner and rocks,” Aymeric explained. “Well, he stopped for a moment when I returned the locket into his possession,” the knight continued. “He smiled then, when he opened it. So at least he smiles as he rocks himself now.”

“Thou didst convey into his possession thine own locket?” Urianger asked, incredulous. “‘Twas all you had....”

“Lady Borel was my mother,” Aymeric interjected firmly. “And while I admit I’m curious, I’d like to know who Aymelie de Cygne was and what, finally, became of her, I have all the family I need -- Estinien, Yvonne and Gerard...Glowing and Lucia and the entire de Fortemps clan. And I’ve made so many friends since the end of the Dragonsong War,” he added, nodding pointedly at Urianger. “I have everyone I need, while Corbeau has no one, _nothing_.”

Urianger looked down again, down at Pierrault. He certainly hadn’t meant to, but Aymeric had struck a chord. While Urianger had long ago found a family for himself, with Louisoix and the Circle of Knowing at first, and then with the Scions, the man lying in the bed before him, much like Corbeau, also had no one, no family left of his own… except, apparently, for Urianger himself. And all the golden-eyed elezen had done since he had tried to reach out was repeatedly push him away. Urianger bowed his head.

“Take his hand, Urianger,” he heard Aymeric say in that irresistible velvet voice of his. “He may very well be able to hear you, or, at least that’s what they told me when Estinien was asleep in these rooms after Nidhogg,” the dark-haired man explained. “Tell him what you have to say, Urianger. Tell him what’s in your heart.”

“Grandfather, I…” Urianger began, but quickly faltered.

“You can do it, Urianger. I know you can,” encouraged the other man.

“I…” he began again. “I wish to know thee, Grandfather, and to know of thy wife who hath passed, my grandmother. And… I wish to know of thy son. I wish to know this other family to which I belong. And I wish to welcome thee into mine own family, to have thee come to know me and mine. And know, Grandfather,” Urianger continued, suddenly spurred on by a feeling, “know that I have taken great pride, though I mayhap didst not know it ‘till this very moment in time, in what thou hast accomplished these last few moons, what thou hast done to bring all of Eorzea together in The Starlight Suite. Know this, then, Grandsire,” Urianger choked out, his voice straining against tears. “Know that I will not let thy efforts come to naught. Though the production cannot continue under the steady direction of thy hand, _I_ will make certain it does, indeed, _continue_.”

“That’s right, Urianger,” said Aymeric, blue eyes shining, “The show must go on!”

From his shoulder, Urianger heard a tiny squeak of excitement and the rapid beating of wings. Fluttering those wings madly and burning bright with a renewed violet glow, the fairy flit into sight, hovering for a beat before turning to face Urianger. She was beaming with delight, and somehow, without any words spoken, the Scion _knew_ that he had been heard, that his grandfather had heard his words and they had brought him nothing but joy.


	13. An Eorzean Starlight Suite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Yule and Happy Starlight and Happy Holidays in general!!! Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading this. I really appreciate it!
> 
> Oh, and ballet dancers say “merde” to wish each other luck before they go onstage. Again, Happy Holidays, everyone!

Khash Thah was excited. Starlight in Old Gridania was certainly something to behold; he had never seen so many creatures gathered in one place at one time. And everyone seemed so happy, so ready to celebrate. Even the soldiers assembled from all participating City-States -- an unfortunate but necessary requirement considering Corbeau’s newly-leaderless cultists were not all accounted for -- seemed jolly, Temple Knights singing snatches of carols with the Sultansworn, Woodwailers and various members of the Maelstrom, and all of them laughing together.

“Khash Thah,” he heard Estinien call, and sighed inwardly. The man was never far from his side since departing Coerthas, never allowing him even a breath of real freedom. “‘Tis nearly curtain time, Khash Thah. Time to head backstage,” Estinien continued, coming up to corral his young charge toward the back of the amphitheater, where Master Beatin and his Carpentry Guild had erected giant wooden wings on either side of the performance space and built slatted platforms over the waterway directly behind the open-air theater, cobbling together a makeshift backstage area for the performers.

The dragonet hurried; he and Toh Y Thrah were in the First Act’s Party Scene with the many other Eorzean children assembled for the purpose, and it had been great fun so far. He had made so many new young friends that he almost felt sorry for Orn Khai, who had absolutely refused to number himself among Eorzea’s youngest citizens. The eldest dragonet was certainly missing out, Khash Thah thought.

“Bring him here,” said an enormous Roegadyn man who was surely the most immaculately-groomed mortal the dragonet had yet to see; he simply shined under the too-numerous-to-count fairy lights strung between the branches arching over their heads. “He needs his headpiece,” said Shiny Man, reaching to fit tiny garlands of holly around each of Khash Thah’s horns. Toh Y Thrah flapped over to his side then, proudly displaying her own set of garlands.

“Thank you, Rose,” Estinien said to the Roegadyn.

“Your hair still needs combing out,” Shiny Man said to Estinien, “ and your Sugarplum ribbons need to be plaited in.”

“Aye, I’ll return as soon as I get these two where they need to be,” the dragoon answered as he escorted his dragonet charges to where the children were waiting excitedly for the performance to commence. “Behave yourselves,” Estinien said to them, his mouth set in a grim line, affecting sternness, “but have fun too,” he added, suddenly smiling. His face lit up with the expression, made almost as bright as Shiny Man’s, and Khash Thah noted, as the dragoon gave them a half-salute and turned away, that he could no longer spy any trace of a tail swinging down behind the departing elezen.

“I think Estinien may be happy,” he reported to his cousin, who was hovering by his side.

“I hope tho,” she answered gazing earnestly at the departing dragoon. “He ith my friend,” she said, nodding solemnly, “and I love him. I want Ethtinien to be happy.”

They heard the rumble of the crowd cease entirely -- a noise so pervasive and persistent they were not aware of it until it was suddenly absent -- as sounds of musicians tuning instruments reached their eager little ears. It wouldn’t be long now, Khash Thah thought, and suddenly his stomach started to feel a little funny. The familiar, comforting figure of their Drosselmeyer swept in then, Archon Urianger Augurelt dressed in his deep blue, satin-trimmed velvet cape. He had taken over direction of the production when poor Master Pierrault had been hurt.

“Is everyone ready?” he asked, smiling warmly at the assembled children.

“I think I have to go pee,” said Toh Y Thah, raising her little claw. Several other voices chimed in, all asserting that they too had to “go pee,” and Khash Thah felt suddenly as though he might have to join them.

Urianger chuckled. “Tis nerves my young friends,” he said. “Once thou art on stage, my dear,” he said to Toh Y Thah, “thou wilt forget,” he assured her and the others. “What I desire thee to remember, all of thee, however,” he said, sweeping his eyes across the group, “is to enjoy thyselves! Concern thyselves with naught but having fun, my dearest and youngest Eorzeans!” Beaming at them, Urianger put a finger to his lips as the stage lights dimmed, the music started in earnest, and the Sultana of Ul’dah took the stage, her adorable pink ringlets streaming down her back and topped with an enormous pink, sunsilk bow at the back of her head.

Sooner than he would have liked, the dragonet heard the musical cue for the children’s entrance, and they were off, filing on stage in swift procession. Once onstage, it was truly a blur -- everything went so fast. They did their circle dance around Clara, separated into pairs staggered at various points across the stage to dance “polka partners” around each other -- Khash Thah was paired with a little Roegadyn girl from Limsa Lominsa who swung him around a little  _ too  _ boisterously through the air -- and then spread out in a semi-circle downstage to watch as Drosselmeyer entered, cape waving, and presented his wondrous Clockwork Doll, danced by Bloom Rising, the Warrior of Light herself, to the partygoers. 

It was over before he knew it, and soon they were being scuttled hurriedly about backstage, into the arms of Shiny Man again, who replaced their holly garlands with a special tricorne hat custom-made to fit over Khash Thah’s horns and little mouse ears wired-over Toh Y Thrah’s. They’d been asked to join the battle between soldiers and mice at the last minute, an inspiration of Urianger’s actually, who thought it would be visually interesting to have them swoop down at each other in long arcs from opposite sides of the stage.

Back onstage in a flash, Khash Thah watched as Alphinaud and Alisaie, the Nutcracker Prince and Mouse Queen, fought a spirited center stage battle, though they were nearly upstaged by the ferocity of mock battle engaged in by a particular blonde-haired hyuran “bilge rat” and her fuschia-haired elezen soldier. Indeed,  _ that _ pair were so invested in their duel that their combat hardly seemed “mock.”

Alisaie danced beautifully, Khash Thah thought, turning his attention back to the twins, which was no surprise considering how she moved with that rapier of hers. In fact, the dragonet was startled to find himself thinking that just about everything the elezen girl did was pretty amazing, and that she was, indeed, the loveliest of mortals he had seen. He sighed to himself, staring at the girl long enough that he almost missed his cue to swoop at his cousin. 

“Khash Thah,” he heard her shout into his head, snapping him into his senses, and he straightaway swooped down to meet her. A couple more swoops and a circling of the stage in the air, pretending to chase one another, and the battle scene was over too, Clara having rescued her beloved prince by chucking a shoe straight at the Mouse Queen’s head. A tall Roegadyn mouse caught her Queen as she fell and carried her offstage, Alisaie unable to stop beaming despite the fact that she was supposed to be unconscious.

His little dragonet heart beating extra fast from all the exercise and excitement, Khash Thah joined his cousin once they were both off-stage again and watched as the ballet corps, all dressed in their white “Snow” costumes, ran past them to take their positions onstage, the blocks of their pointe shoes hitting the wooden boards of the stage with such enthusiasm that they sounded more like an army tramping to war than ballet dancers.

“Shoes, shoes!” Urianger called from the wings in a stage-whisper, but the dragonet could tell he wasn’t truly angry by the laughing smile on his face. He knew the corps was probably just as nervous as the children had been, and that probably no small number of them had also become aware of a pressing urge to “go pee” just before they were to go onstage. 

Khash Thah watched as the Snowflake dancers flitted around Clara and her Nutcracker Prince, watched with Toh Y Thah as the dancers increased their speed, leaping and turning to simulate a growing blizzard that threatened to overwhelm Clara and her escort. Drosselmeyer swept in then, swirling his enchanted cape to somehow placate the rising storm, and the snow dancers quieted to a steady, silent snow-falling. Watching them twirl on the very tips of their funny clawless toes made the young dragonet wonder, suddenly, what it might be like to dance in those strange, hard-toed slippers. 

The corps rushed past him again, their shoes still thundering across the boards, as Khash Thah was still wondering. This time it was truly a rush, though: they had only the ten minutes or so of intermission to change from snowflakes to angels and be ready in the wings to guide Clara and her Nutcracker Prince to the “Land of Sweets” and Act Two.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Nora Duval was used to moving fast. As a scout in the Order of the Twin Adder, the platinum-haired elezen woman had to frequently slide swiftly between tree trunks or instantly hoist herself into branches to either avoid being seen or to gain a good vantage point from which to spy during her frequent reconnaissance missions. The young duskwight and member of SEED, resplendent in her “Snow” costume -- bright white against her night-dark skin -- was used to having to hustle through many of her daily activities. What she was not used to doing quickly, however, was hooking and unhooking the seemingly endless tiny hook and eye fasteners that lined the back of each and every one of her Starlight Suite costumes. 

Still breathless from dancing “Snow,” and smack in the middle of a conga-line of her fellow corps members, Nora unhooked the bodice of the dancer before her as her friend, Isabelle Renaud, unhooked her own bodice from behind. Willing her own suddenly clumsy fingers to not stumble through the tiny hooks and eyes, she succeeded, finally, in freeing her charge at nearly the same time as she felt her own bodice loosen completely, held on only by its thin shoulder straps. 

Backstage at the ballet is no place for modesty, especially when there’s limited time in which to change costumes. Freed from her bodice, Nora stripped down to her tights where she stood and moved to retrieve her “Angels” costume from where it hung at the precise moment that Estinien Wyrmblood, the former Azure Dragoon of Ishgard and one of the most beautiful men upon which Nora had ever laid eyes, happened to wander by on his way from having his Sugarplum ribbons plaited into his hair by Wardrobe Master Rose. 

Nora herself, however much she admired the man, was too harried to worry overmuch about exposing her bare breasts to him as she shuffled into her cream-coloured sheath and prepared to both hook and be hooked, but she observed him blushing a deep shade of crimson as he passed the line of half-dressed ballet girls. Nora noted the reaction of this most formidable of warriors and found it singularly charming. Ser Aymeric de Borel, as stunningly handsome as he was himself, was certainly a most fortunate man, she thought. 

As she finished hooking up the dancer in front of her and helped to adjust her angel wings, just as Isabelle was adjusting hers, Urianger Augurelt -- not such a bad-looking man himself, Nora thought -- appeared from the wings carrying a box filled with candles. He handed a candle to each of the newly-winged and haloed “Angels” as he walked down the line of dancers and then ushered them to their places, ready to take the stage just as the performance’s intermission was ending. 

Just as they were about to go on, amid a smattering of barely audible “merdes” whispered among the corps, Nora saw Urianger concentrate for a moment, closing those beautiful golden eyes. When he opened them again, the wicks of each of their candles suddenly flamed into light with a bright, violet glow. Nora was stunned to feel no heat from the flame, despite its seemingly intense burning. Then, holding her newly-illuminated candle aloft, Nora bourréd slowly across the stage, following Isabelle, just as Clara entered from the other side with her Prince.

Alas for the state of her poor toes, “Angels” was danced nearly entirely en pointe, mostly simple steps, the bourré and a lot of port de bras candle-waving; still, that much time spent on one’s toes takes its toll, and Nora was more than happy to step into the wings again once the dance was finished.

As she filed past the performers waiting in the wings on her way to their makeshift backstage area once again, Nora was stunned to see Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn, Limsa Lominsa’s Head of State, standing there polishing a shiny, brass-plated pistol.

“Wonderful job, girls,” boomed the Admiral in anything but a stage whisper. Nora could see Urianger sigh to himself, but he said nothing to the Roegadyn woman -- didn’t even lift a shushing finger to his lips -- wishing, perhaps, to avoid a diplomatic incident. As Nora passed close by the Admiral, the woman gave her an encouraging clap on the shoulder, as though to emphasize her assertion about their “wonderful” performance. Waiting until she was completely out of the woman’s sight before she glanced tentatively at the shoulder thus affected, Nora wondered how large a bruise the Admiral’s enthusiastic hand-clap would leave. She laughed to herself, then. How many fellow Gridanians could say they’d been assaulted by the fearsome former Pirate Queen turned City Leader? Certainly it was a badge of honor, she thought as she and her fellow corps members assembled into their conga line again and prepared to unhook and hook, changing into their frothy pink “Flowers” costumes.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Y’shtola Rhul stood toward the back of the audience, having forfeited her seat during the performance’s intermission in order to allow an elderly woman and her grandchildren, all of whom had travelled far and looked fatigued, a chance to enjoy the rest of the show more comfortably. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder between Thancred and G’raha, both of whom had also relinquished their seats, she felt a bit pressed in by the crowd, a bit claustrophobic. Also, she wasn’t quite sure she was enjoying herself. Certainly she wished to support Urianger; however frustrating he might be at times, she had an abiding affection for the man, but it wasn’t as though she could actually participate in the performance as fully as most “seeing” audience members could. She could enjoy the music, of course, and she could watch the aether of the excited dancers swirl over the stage in ever-more-complex patterns, but she could not appreciate the dancing in a more “typical” way.

And she had never been certain how she felt about this whole Starlight Suite business in the first place. While she sympathized with the impulse to “stage” a showing of Eorzean solidarity, she felt it to be somehow disingenuous: Eorzean unity could not fully be affected until the Beast Tribes were taken into account. After all, like the Dravanians -- who had managed to invite themselves into the Starlight Suite fold courtesy of one upstart dragonet -- the Beast Tribes were Eorzeans too.

Still, the “Land of Sweets” was up next, the divertissements in which different styles of music and dancing would be showcased, and that piqued the archon’s interest a bit. The “Chocolate” dance was first, and Y’shtola had to admit that whatever clashes she had experienced with the Lominsan Leader in the past, she could do nothing but admire the boldness of Merlwyb’s aether. It flooded the performance space during the Lominsan contingent’s raucous interpretation of the dance, engulfing the audience in its spirited swell and engaging them as fully as did the smell of smoke and the sharp cracking of the Admiral’s firing pistols. Y’shtola very much appreciated how those particular details, the smoke and gunshots, helped to engage the senses of someone who could not “see” in the traditional way.

The Admiral’s contingent gave way to Lyse Hext’s “Coffee.” Y’shtola smiled; it was a nice feeling, a comfort, to sense the presence of her old companion again. The music to the dance was particularly lovely too, slow and seductive, perfectly echoing Lyse’s seemingly languid movements -- movements that belied the precise control necessary to showcasing her incredible flexibility. The former scion ended the dance by bending backwards from standing, planting her hands firmly on the floor and flipping herself over into a full forward split flat to the stage, a feat of which the crowd very much approved if their enthusiastic applause was any measure.

Orn Khai and his dragonet companions danced “Tea” next, a performance which, when she had heard of it, very much sparked Y’shtola’s interest. Here at last were Eorzeans who existed apart from the traditional peoples, much like the Beast Tribes. Yet after a thousand years of hatred, Dravanians were slowly coming together with select Ishgardians, Ser Estinien and Lord Aymeric most notably, to discuss ways they might coexist peaceably. But Y’shtola’s mind was drawn quickly from its political ruminations by the delighted cries of the audience as the Dravanians took to the air above them, swooping and circling, flipping and flying complex-looking patterns around one another. The scion was particularly impressed by the prismatic nature of the young dragons’ aether as they spun in circles overhead, a result of their obvious joy.

After the dragonets departed the stage, there was a lull for a long moment -- the dread of any production’s director. Y’shtola idly wondered what could be the matter as a susurration of equally inquiring voices spread out over the audience. After a span of what seemed like forever, but was more like sixty seconds, the audience drew in breath as Lord Hien of Doma stumbled out on the stage, his aether coloured a strange mixture of harried and aroused, a sort of yellowish deep purple. Thancred laughed out loud beside her.

“What is it?” she asked.

“His face -- well, his mouth and neck really. They’re covered in lipstick that looks suspiciously similar to the shade Lyse was wearing,” he replied, still chuckling to himself.

“Oh,” was Y’shtola’s bland response. She had an established ambivalence toward romantic intrigue of any kind, particularly when it involved herself, but also in regard to her friends. Love was a private matter, after all. Hien’s “Dango” dance was interesting in one regard though; it allowed Y’shtola to confirm something she’d suspected for some time. At the change in the music from delicately piping flutes to more ominous tones, when the opportunistic ninja dropped in to harass Hien’s drunken samurai, Y’shtola noted that she could barely detect their aether. She’d had a feeling that ninja could somehow suppress their life energies in order to avoid detection, and was delighted to have that feeling verified.

Troupe Falsiam succeeded Hien onstage, acquitting themselves admirably, according to Thancred. They had apparently exchanged their usual disk-shaped weapons for red and white peppermint striped hoops that they flung and spun and tossed about onstage, to the audience’s gasping delight. 

As the professional dancers left the stage, Y’shtola suddenly felt G’raha tense up beside her. She had only a moment to wonder what  _ that _ was about, before it became abundantly clear. As the lively, bouncing music of Mother Ginger’s dance started, a type of aether both very familiar and very displaced flowed out onto the stage. That was Nu Mou aether -- Beq Lugg’s aether -- Y’shtola recognized with a startled sucking-in of her breath, and it had absolutely no business being anywhere but back on the First.

“It can’t be,” she heard Thancred tensely whisper beside her.

“But it is,” she heard G’raha respond.

She felt Thancred, of all people, reach to clasp her hand tightly in his as she heard the Mother Ginger apparatus -- essentially a wooden scaffolding on which was erected an immense hoop-skirted ball gown -- being rolled onstage. Beq Lugg was either floating in mid-air, or standing on a platform inside the dress, their body sticking out the top. As was expected of Mother Ginger, the diminutive Nu Mou performer was frantically waving at the crowd. Once positioned center-stage, however, they drew back the front of their skirt as though it were a curtain, allowing an entire brood of ruff-collared, harlequin-checked children to come tumbling out, all of them recognizable as hailing from the Crystarium. 

As the last performer emerged from beneath Mother Ginger’s skirts, Y’shtola felt Thancred’s grip on her hand tighten almost painfully. She heard the gasp and felt him start forward at the same time she recognized the unmistakable aether of the First’s Oracle of Light, their own beloved Ryne. 

As Y’shtola watched the familiar yet otherworldly aether dance across the stage, as she felt her hand shake with Thancred’s trembling, probably as he tried to suppress mounting tears, she wondered. Was she perhaps just the slightest bit disappointed that Runar was not among those citizens of the First bursting out from beneath Mother Ginger’s skirt?

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Estinien took his place in the wings. He was early, he knew, but he couldn’t help feeling just a bit uneasy, a bit restless as he paced back and forth backstage, just waiting around to go on. It wasn’t the performance itself that bothered him. Estinien was confident in his skill as a dancer, and he felt really good, his muscles warmed and buzzing in anticipation of the leaps and turns, the preparations and lifts; he knew he was ready. He was a little more concerned about Aymeric. The insufferable man had been grinning knowingly at him all day, dropping hints that he had “something special” for him at the end of the performance, a “surprise.”

Estinien did not like surprises. What if Aymeric kissed him in front of all of Eorzea? A peck would be bad enough, but what if the sentimental, besotted idiot kissed him deeply, passionately, the kind of kiss he liked -- as long as the entire world wasn’t watching? Or, Sweet Halone, what if he got down on one knee and legitimately proposed to him? Estinien felt all the colour drain from his face at the thought, but he couldn’t deny that it would be just like Aymeric to politicize the performance in order to further his agenda. Certainly, they had bound their hearts in wedlock moons ago, but a public proposal? It would be an obvious bid to force Ishgard’s hand.

And a proposal meant a ring. He didn’t have a ring to give Aymeric in return and had no idea how to acquire one or even what type of ring his beloved might like -- he supposed something blue, set with a blue stone, at least. The whole situation had the beautiful, silver-haired elezen breaking out in a sweat that had absolutely nothing to do with dancing.

As he continued to stew, the strange Mother Ginger apparatus, with its even stranger creature perched atop, was rolled back into the wings, and the corps dancers, this time dressed in their pink “Flowers” costumes, assembled beside him. As the women filed past him onstage, he noticed one of them -- the pretty duskwight who he’d caught topless as she changed backstage -- give him a playful wink. Estinien blushed.

“Should I be concerned?” he heard the smooth, velvet voice of Aymeric whisper into his ear as he felt the man wrap his arms around his waist from behind, pulling him close.

“Aymeric,” Estinien answered, his exasperation clear in his voice. “Of course not, she was...I accidentally…” he started to sputter.

“‘Tis fine, Estinien. I was merely teasing,” Aymeric laughed, hugging Estinien tighter to him as he brushed his lips across the back of his lover’s ear. “It won’t be long now,” he said. “Are you feeling ready, my dear?” he asked.

Estinien nodded, shook his shoulders out, rolled his neck back and forth and started to hop up and down in place a little, trying to loosen up.

“Alright, my Sugarplum,” Aymeric whispered as they watched the “Waltz of the Flowers” come to an end and the corps dancers run offstage. “”Tis time for your debut. Merde, my love,” he said, swatting Estinien playfully on the rump to send him out onstage.

From the first tinkling notes of the “Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy,” to Estinien’s ending sous-sus, his arms raised in fourth position, the audience descended into a stunned silence that not even a single throat-clearing or rustling of a paper program disrupted. Then the crowd simply gushed, applauding his bold interpretation of the dance so vigorously that they seemed unwilling to stop even when Aymeric took the stage for his Cavalier solo.

Finally, Ishgard’s Lord of Lord’s and its final Azure Dragoon reunited for the Cavalier Grand Pas de Deux. This time, however, the assembled citizens of Eorzea could not help themselves. Completely breaching all ballet etiquette, they clapped and shouted with delight at each lift, each turn, each perfect position, seeming nearly to erupt with glee as Aymeric pulled Estinien across the floor while the dragoon held his perfect ninety-degree arabesque. It was then that Estinien saw, from the corner of his eye as he concentrated on holding his position, Kan-E-Senna, leader of Gridania, holding her arms high, as though in supplication to the Twelveswoods itself. 

Gridania was not Ishgard, not in temperament and certainly not in climate. But here, on this eve of the Starlight Suite, in a place known more for its torrential downpours than any other sort of weather, it began to quietly snow.

There was no roof to their stage, nothing but the trees overhead, so snow fell down upon the two dancers as Aymeric promenaded Estinien around, as they separated to prepare, and as they executed the climactic move of their pas de deux, the daring fish dive. Silence reigned again over the audience, just for a moment as the lovers held their final pose, both breathing heavily. Then the damn burst as Aymeric pulled back to lift Estinien to his feet again, the entire performance space flooding with wild exhortations of approval. The applause did not abate as the entire cast arrived back onstage for the final group dance and curtain calls.

Estinien could not believe it was finished; the Starlight Suite was over. He stood front and center on the stage, still somewhat out of breath and disoriented as multiple bouquets of flowers were piled so high in his arms that it became difficult for him to see over them. The snow was still falling, quiet but steady, and it caught in his hair, whitening it further, as he stared about and blinked stupidly, having entirely forgotten to be apprehensive about whatever “surprise” Aymeric had planned for him. Aymeric, however, had not forgotten; he grinned slyly at Estinien, reached behind his back, and deposited yet one more bouquet atop the pile in his dearest’s arms.

It was a small bouquet, simple flowers compared to the grand confections of roses, camellias and orchids that were already heaped in his arms -- simple flowers coloured in shades of red, pink and white. These were colours familiar to Estinien, flowers familiar to him -- though they grew far from Ishgard -- because they were the same kind of Ala Mhigan blossoms upon which he and Aymeric had bedded down the very first time they had made love. Estinien felt his throat go tight at the thought that Aymeric must have asked Lyse to bring the bouquet all the way from Ala Mhigo. 

Suddenly overcome, he snatched the Ala Mhigan bouquet from the top of his pile at the same time as he turned to Urianger, who was standing beside him, and deposited the rest of the flowers in his startled arms. Then, taking his precious Blue’s face within his hands in front of all of Eorzea, he bestowed upon Aymeric exactly the type of “passionate” kiss he’d so recently been fearful he’d  _ receive _ from his knight. Judging from the increased thunder of applause, and an added chorus of enthusiastic whistles and hoots, all of Eorzea approved.

  
  


Later, at the post-performance dinner catered by Limsa Lominsa’s Bismark, Estinien looked thoughtfully around the Carline Canopy and reflected upon the experience of having participated in such an unusual event as the Starlight Suite. Various groups of participants were gathered around different tables, eating and talking excitedly, post-performance adrenaline yet winning out over exhaustion. He saw Merlwyb and Reyner sitting down together to eat with Nanamo, Pepin and Kan-E-Senna, a hodgepodge of various City-State uniforms circled around them, while an unmasked Lord Lolorito dined with Redolent Rose and his partner, an equally handsome and, if possible, even more massive Roegadyn man. 

At a long banquet table lined with Starlight crackers, fizzy drinks and wrapped packages of various kinds of sweets, the children of the performance were seated with the SEED corps members, Khash Thah, Toh Y Thrah and even Orn Khai bobbing excitedly over their assigned seats. Ala Mhigo’s Lyse Hext and Lord Hien of Doma had pushed a small table for two into a dim, out-of-the-way corner, Estinien noted with a grin, and were talking closely, smiling widely at one another. 

Familiar footfalls crunching in the still-falling snow behind him alerted Estinien to Aymeric’s arrival before the man wrapped his arms around Estinien’s waist and rested his head on his dragoon’s broad shoulder.

“You never fail to surprise me, my love,” he whispered. “I never thought you would commit yourself to such a public avowal of our partnership. Thank you for that, Estinien. You have no idea what it means to me.”

“I love you, Aymeric. I know it. You know it. Now so does everyone else… and I do mean _ everyone _ ,” Estinien softly replied. 

Aymeric kissed him on the back of his neck, making him shiver. “I love you too, Estinien de Borel,” Aymeric whispered, nuzzling his face in Estinien’s mass of silver hair.

Estinien just smiled and shook his head at his knight’s dogged persistence. Perhaps one day he  _ would _ be able to legally wed Aymeric, to even take his name. He certainly wouldn’t bet against a determined Aymeric. “I’m hungry,” he abruptly announced out loud, suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten since midday.

“Well then, pray let us seek the remedy to your current distress,” Aymeric responded with a dramatic sweeping of his hand toward the mess of pushed-together tables around which were gathered the entire Fortemps clan and several members of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. Edmont raised a glass to toast the pair as they drew close.

“To Aymeric and Estinien, may their partnership ever thrive,” said the older elezen man to a chorus of affirming “hear, hears” from the rest of the group. 

Lucia detached herself from her place within Artoirel’s arms to embrace Aymeric and Estinien, in turn. “You were truly magical together,” she said before returning to her own elezen’s arms.

“I agree,” said a voice from the far end of the table, from where the Scions were assembled, Alphinaud, Alisaie and Thancred clustered around the unfamiliar girl who’d emerged from beneath Mother Ginger’s skirts, and Bloom and Urianger leaning close together, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

Estinien smiled then, smiled to see the violet glow of the man’s fairy companion as she settled herself on the shoulder of the much-recovered Ballet Master himself. “You’re looking well, Master Pierrault,” he said, referring to how straight and tall the older man held himself in his wheeled chair, even while holding a very asleep and lightly snoring Lord Glowing Greystone de Fortemps close in his lap.

“It’s the dancing, I assure you, my dear Estinien. The dancing is what will keep you young!” he enthused. 

“Speaking of which,” Artoirel chimed in, “Father and I have been discussing the possibility of turning the Tribunal into a performance space, and not just that, but a Center for the Performing Arts in general, complete with its own theater, opera and even its own ballet company: the Ishgard Opera Ballet, with Ballet Master Henri Pierrault at the helm as our Artistic Director. What do you think?” he asked.

“We’ve even, with Master Pierrault’s approval, chosen “Swan Lake” to be our inaugural performance, provided, that is, that you’ll take the lead role, Estinien,” Edmont expounded.

“It’s a delectable part, my friend,” enthused the Ballet Master, “a double role, delicate Odette and daring Odile.”

Somewhat stunned by the deluge of both information and possibility, the dragoon looked around at all the expectant faces turned toward him. He himself turned to look at Aymeric; there was no help to be had there, he decided -- his lover just beamed at him, impossible eyes shining. He looked out the window for a moment, at the snow silently falling through starlight. Then, finally, he looked back to the group. “What?” Estinien asked, sighing, already making the motions of resigned capitulation. “You mean there’s more?”


	14. Entr'acte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics take their toll on Ishgard's Lord Speaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW for a moment at the end here.

“I must respectfully decline, my Lord Dzemael,” replied Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Speaker of Ishgard’s House of Lords and Lord Commander of its Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly. “While I understand your position and do, indeed, agree that universal suffrage is among the weightiest issues upon which we must decide this session,” he said, wearing the warmest smile of which he was capable, ”I cannot in good conscience vote to enfranchise only the literate, but would encourage a more robust funding of our grammar schools, effectively ensuring that, within a generation, literacy is no longer a concern in Ishgard.”

“As I expected,  _ Lord Viscount _ ,” returned the Count, eyes half-lidded, an almost bored expression on his long, horsey face as he drawled out Aymeric’s title, voice languidly dripping superciliousness. “You would have the lowest of the Brume trash steering the course of their betters. Why would I have thought anything different,” he continued, giving an affected yawn before dropping his voice to a derisive purr, “especially considering the.. _.company _ you keep.” Dzemael sniffed slightly and gave Aymeric a contemptuous smile that stopped just short of a threat, before turning and sauntering from the Lord Speaker’s chambers as though he had all the time in the world; he and his kind could afford to wait out this low-born upstart.

Aymeric stood, smile still in place across his features for a beat, before his brow furrowed, narrowing his eyes into a scowl. He turned to his desk and swept it’s surface clean, taking great satisfaction in the clatter of books, the swish of documents, the thunk and glug of his inkwell, as they all tumbled to the floor. Pausing for a moment, expression neutral as he watched the toppled well puddle its ink on the floor, his eyes narrowed again and his lips turned white from how tightly he pressed them together. The rest of his face burned red, an angry red to his eartips, as he strode over to the stonework hearth at the end of his chambers and punched it  _ hard _ , bursting the skin on the knuckles of his sword hand.

“Hells!” he shouted out to the empty room. Then he turned to retrieve his cloak, swept it around his broad shoulders, blood from his hand dripping onto Borel blue, and stormed from his office, slamming the heavy door behind him. 

A walk of mere minutes brought the Lord Commander within sight of his Congregation. While he wasn’t due in today, in his official capacity at least -- Lucia oversaw many of his daily duties when parliament was in session -- he knew Estinien was working hard in the studio that evening, doing stretches to keep his muscles warm and limber during the cold, cold moons of an Ishgardian Winter. While the building that once served the Halonic Inquisition was being repurposed to house both the newly founded Ishgard Opera Ballet and the Ishgard Symphony Orchestra, as well as some yet unnamed theater company still enduring the tumult of its birthing pains, renovations were not yet complete.

“Estinien!” Aymeric said, bursting in on his prima while he yet had one impossibly long leg still slung up on the barre. Sweeping him from his barre stretch, Aymeric lifted Estinien as though the heavily muscled dragoon’s weight was of negligible concern to him, and pinned the taller, leaner man to the door of the studio’s storage room, his head at the level of his lover’s chest. Instinctively, Estinien wrapped his legs around Aymeric’s waist and bent his long neck down to more easily meet Aymeric’s rapidly rising lips. Apparently his near instantaneous capitulation to his lord was yet not fast enough to suit the slightly shorter man: he grabbed his dragoon roughly by the back of the neck, forcing him hard against the crush of his ferocious kiss. “I need you, Estinien,” Aymeric nearly growled, his voice straining, devoid of its customary smoothness. “I need you  _ now _ ,” he said again, softer now, but still with a raw edge. Taking Estinien’s weight fully against his body, he reached for the knob of the door against which he’d braced his partner.

“I will not be fucked in a closet, Aymeric,” Estinien protested sharply, “amidst piles of wilting tutus and broken, black-smudged dancing slippers. We have a perfectly good bed at home, you know,” he responded, struggling now to free himself from Aymeric’s determined grip. Fury, his knight was strong, he thought to himself, especially when so clearly boosted by adrenaline. “Let me down, Aymeric, and tell me what has you so aggravated. I assume it has to do with some lord or other,” he continued, wriggling himself free, finally, to slide slowly down the surface of the door as his lover relaxed his hold. His feet touched down to the studio floor just as he felt Aymeric’s body, still pressed tight against him, break into a fevered shaking.

“Aymeric!” he barked, trying to distract the other man from his raging. “Love, what troubles thee?”

“‘Tis just that you’ve done so much, given  _ so very much _ of yourself to Ishgard, for the good of the state and its people...and they persist in regarding you so poorly, in treating you so atrociously,” he sputtered out, voice still straining against the tightness in his throat. “And I love you so, Estinien. I can no longer abide it.” Warm tears started to stream down his red-hot cheeks.

“Aymeric,” Estinien replied gently, lifting his hands to cup his lover’s steaming face.

“You drew the great wyrm’s gaze from Ishgard’s fragile walls, taking it fully upon yourself -- and you, of all people,  _ knew _ the devastation that could result from his attentions; yet they called you a thief, a traitor,” Aymeric recounted.

“I believe a well-placed someone intervened upon my behalf in regard to those specific accusations,” Estinien rejoined gently, trying to coax Aymeric from his anger.

His knight refused to desist from the pursuit of his grievance. “You defeated Nidhogg with only Bloom by your side.”

“She did quite a bit of the defeating, Aymeric. As you well know,” Estinien interrupted.

“I  _ know _ that you stood against Nidhogg and his minions with only one friend to grant you succor, having forbidden me the privilege,” the knight persisted, too angry to resist letting loose his resentment at that much-gnawed, old bone of contention between them.

“Aymeric,” Estinien said softly, obviously hurt.

“You have your body inhabited by Nidhogg, almost lose your very essence to him -- after freeing Ishgard from its pernicious history of lies by ridding it of those who would perpetuate them,” Aymeric continued, “and you are still regarded as a potential threat by its citizens, dismissed as a peasant upstart by its lords.”

“I am still a shepherd at heart, my love,” Estinien whispered low, as he drew his thumbs back and forth across Aymeric’s cheekbones, trying to establish a soothing rhythm. “And there is only _ one _ lord’s opinion to which I grant any consequence. Need I remind you that what I personally regard as my greatest sacrifice to the future security of Ishgard is performing as your Sugarplum in the Alliance’s production of the Starlight Suite?” Estinien inquired with an arch expression on his face. “No, Aymeric,” he began, stopping his knight’s imminent rejoinder with a finger pressed to his lips, “there is but one person in this world who could persuade me to such foolishness before all of Eorzea.”

“Need I remind  _ you _ that _ you _ were the one to kiss _ me _ before all of Eorzea,” Aymeric responded, his face softening for a moment into a fond grin as he reached up to gently push Estinien’s silencing finger aside, before brushing a loose strand of silver-white hair from the dragoon’s cheek.

“Your hand, Aymeric,” Estinien said, noticing his knight’s damaged knuckles as they brushed blood against his pale cheek and into his hair.

“Tis nothing, Estinien,” he replied.

“What did you do -- punch a wall?” the dragoon asked, sighing.

“A stone mantel, actually,” Aymeric replied, looking just a tad sheepish.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break it, you know,” Estinien fussed. “Let me get dressed and we’ll get this cleaned up at home.” With that, the taller man bent to retrieve his karakul-skin boots, the ones lined with thick fleece, and flopped on the floor to wrangle them on to his slightly swollen feet.

“I thought you detested those things,” Aymeric said, teasing. “That you wouldn’t be ‘caught dead’ wearing them no matter their reputation for warmth and comfort.”

Estinien shrugged, not rising to the bait. “I find they are just the thing to ease my aching feet after dancing in those damnable, hard-toed slippers,” he explained, happy that his own slight embarrassment could distract Aymeric from his rancor.

“I should check in on Emil,” Aymeric said, fully turned from his anger now. “I had meant to today, before…”

“He will be fine until tomorrow, Aymeric,” Estinien countered gently, sweeping an identical Borel blue cloak -- minus the latest blood stains, of course -- around his own strong but slightly less broad shoulders, and marching out of both the studio and the Congregation. Aymeric followed, jogging to catch up with his lover’s longer stride. He reached out to grasp Estinien by the hand, heedless of both how his knuckles ached in the cold and any random passerby’s observation of their implied intimacy, as they walked toward home.

The next morning, Aymeric awoke with a full bladder. Hastening to the water-closet, whose door was directly beside that of the master suite’s bath, he relieved himself quickly, then returned to bed, hissing at the cold on his naked skin. Still, one of the true pleasures of his life as it was now was slipping back into bed on a frigid Winter morning and warming his body against Estinien’s heat. Snuggling close, his head on Estinien’s shoulder, right arm hugging his chest, and one of his own long legs spanning across Estinien’s substantial thighs, pulling his dragoon’s legs tighter against him, Aymeric clung tight to his lover, causing the man to shift in his sleep and cock one eye open.

“Must you cling so, ‘meric?” he mumbled sleepily.

“‘Tis cold; I must,” his snuggling lord answered with a grin, before increasing the pressure of his embrace.

“Fury, Aymeric! Squeeze any tighter and my eyeballs will pop from my skull!” Estinien exclaimed, wriggling again in his knight’s crushing grip.

Knowing it would be in very poor taste, Aymeric declined to speculate on the potential power one might wield by possessing an “Eye of Estinien” as a relic. Regardless, he and his beloved had developed a remarkable sympathy of thought in the course of, first, their long friendship and, then, their continuing love affair; Estinien knew what he was thinking. Turning his head to brush noses with his knight, he burst into red-faced laughter at the thought, and Aymeric joined him in his mirth, laughing against his lover’s lips as he gave him a morning kiss. 

Having washed, brushed and fed themselves -- Aymeric was still somewhat astounded at the prodigious quantity of food Estinien required to fuel himself through his morning’s activities -- the pair headed back to the Congregation of Knights Most Heavenly. The Lord Speaker was not due in his parliamentary chambers until late in the afternoon, and only for a few bells even then, and Estinien had nothing planned for the day other than an early evening technique class with Master Pierrault, after which Aymeric was to join them in a discussion of the Ishgard Opera Ballet’s Inaugural production of “Swan Lake.” 

The dragoon knew his knight meant to keep the appointment his burst of temper caused him to miss on the previous day, and he had no intention of allowing Aymeric to meet with Emil de Corbeau on his own, despite his former tormentor’s seeming gentling toward the knight. Indeed, since being moved from the prison cells to a secure room in the infirmary, Emil seemed to love nothing better than to be visited by the man whose death he had so recently sought. And while not so hard-hearted as to have no compassion for a man whose love was crushed by the same power that had nearly sent Estinien to oblivion, the dragoon was not a stupid man; he knew Corbeau could be dissembling -- could “smile, and smile, and be a villain,” as that old play, a favorite of Aymeric’s, described.

Aymeric knew it too, of course, but knowledge had never before impeded the course of his heart, and it would not now. Besides, Urianger Augurelt had sat with the man on multiple occasions, intent on observing fluctuations in his aether in order to surmise whether or not Corbeau’s softening toward Aymeric was legitimate. Urianger had just as much reason to despise the prisoner as did Ishgard’s current Lord Speaker and former Azure dragoon; Emil’s attempted assassination of Aymeric had nearly killed the scion’s own grandfather. But the grandfather in question, Ballet Master Henri Pierrault himself, had forgiven his assailant nearly as soon as he was conscious enough to do so, and had proceeded to recover so quickly that he was soon exasperating his healers and terrorizing the citizenry with the speed at which he whipped around Ishgard’s streets in his wheeled chair, often with Lord Glowing Greystone de Fortemps squealing happily in his lap. Urianger, likewise, quickly forgave the much-abused vintner, and was soon doing what he could to appeal for clemency for Corbeau -- a part of which was ensuring that clemency was warranted. The scion could discover no aetheric abnormalities that suggested Emil was anything but sincere in his newfound affection for Aymeric.

Bidding morning greetings to the two Temple Knights who guarded the prisoner’s room, Aymeric was ushered inside, Estinien close on his heels. Emil was awake, a breakfast tray set aside on his bedside table as soon as he recognized the identity of his visitor.

“Please, Master Corbeau, do not let me interrupt your meal,” Aymeric said gently. “I can return later.”

“No, no, please, Aymel...Aymeric, I mean” the older man responded, his voice grainy from disuse. “I was just finishing. I find myself with little appetite this morning.”

“Are you unwell, Sir? Pray, tell me, is there something to be done that might increase your comfort?” Aymeric replied. “Perhaps you would like a new pot of tea; it appears as though yours has gone cold.”

“Only if you and Ser Estinien,” Corbeau gestured to the knight dragoon, “would do me the honor of joining me in a cup,” the man said with a wan, tired-looking grin.

“Nothing would please me more,” Aymeric returned with enthusiasm. “I’m parched.”

“You’re always parched,” Estinien teased. “You consume enough tea alone -- without even mentioning your affinity for wine -- that someone surveying your grocer’s bill would presume you lived in Ul-dah, Ala Mhigo, or some similarly dusty location.”

“True,” Aymeric conceded, grinning merrily at the jibe.

“Do you like wine, Aymeric?” Emil asked, diffident, as Estinien slid open the guards’ window embedded in the door and requested a fresh tea service for three.

“Very much,” replied the knight eagerly.

“Your...your... mother, Halone bless her and keep her, was quite fond of a light Summer white we had, not too sweet and not too dry, middling, slightly tart and excessively effervescent. I hear her laughing at the bubbles whenever I see the label,” he said, eyes growing more distant as he spoke, until tears started to leave wet tracks down his face. Pausing, Emil took the cloth napkin from his breakfast tray and wiped at his eyes. “I apologize, Aym..Aymeric,” the man said softly, returning to the present. 

“No need, my friend,” said Aymeric sweetly. “I do so enjoy learning about the mother I never had the pleasure of knowing.”

Emil nodded, his smile faint and eyes watery, as the tea arrived and Estinien moved a nearby table closer to the bed before setting down the service. The dragoon gestured with his eyes to Aymeric, indicating that he had no intention of pouring. His lover took the hint and, as always, took on the role of host with grace and fluidity, preparing the older man’s tea to his indications -- just a touch of cream, no sugar -- before serving Estinien and himself. Then, continuing on the subject of wine, a topic of some interest to him, and one to which he could defer to the superior knowledge of the Master Vintner, Aymeric steered the conversation masterfully, putting the older man at his ease and allowing him some pride in his proficiency.

Estinien, never much one for polite small talk, found himself in the rather odd position of watching Emil as Emil watched Aymeric -- as he stared at the knight’s face intently, greedily drinking in every word as though it were the fine wine they were discussing. The dragoon very well knew that the older man had no desire for Aymeric himself, but was most likely comparing her son’s face to that of his long-lost love: Estinien had seen the miniature; he knew Aymeric’s resemblance to his birth mother was uncanny. Still, Corbeau’s unremitting stare was beginning to make him feel a bit possessive. He only became aware of how the conversation between the two men had progressed when Emil said something truly shocking.

“I could not possibly accept…” Aymeric began, his eyes registering both surprise and concern.

“Your mother was my dearest friend, my only love,” interrupted the older man. “She loved you so much, Aymeric, as you grew inside her, fluttering your tiny limbs like a moth’s grey wings,” he continued, suddenly tearing his gaze away from the younger man’s face and looking down at the hands he held folded in his lap. “And she charged me, upon our final meeting, with caring for her family as if they were my own. I have failed her most profoundly in that trust.”

“But you cared for my Uncle, who yet still lives, and shepherded his mother ‘till the end of her days,” Aymeric broke in gently, reminding him of truths shared in earlier conversations.

“Aye, and I tried to murder _ you _ ,” replied Corbeau quietly, stripping the very words from a startled Estinien’s internal dialogue. “Even though my actions weigh down my own heart, even though I repent of them, their consequences yet remain. Who knows what damage I may have wrought in my assembly of “The Sightless” -- if their movement, and the dangerous activities it inspires, will continue on without me,” he mused.

“And you are currently making amends,” Aymeric rejoined.

“Serving out a prison sentence in comfort can do little to reconcile the destruction I’ve caused, son,” the older man continued. “And Aymeril has no desire for my property. He’s committed to his missionary work, moving among those made refugees by the Garlean Empire, with an eye less on Halonic proselytizing and more on providing food and clean water to those most in need. He is a very good man, Aymeric, much like you in spirit. I hope you two can meet someday.” Emil sighed again.

“While I am most grateful for your consideration…”

“And who should be my heir, but you, Aymeric de Borel?” the older man asked, interrupting again. “The fates of our respective Houses have long been intertwined. Perhaps that’s as the Fury intended, despite my lifelong resistance, my misplaced hatred. And besides, you genuinely  _ like _ wine,” he said with something akin to a genuine attempt at a smile.

“Too much,” Estinien muttered, his thoughts pushing through his mouth without the advantage of having been vetted by his better consideration. 

Emil genuinely laughed at the slip, laughed as Aymeric blushed. “Consider it at least, son. I know you haven’t the time to oversee a winery yourself, but my estate manager is a reliable man. You can trust him. Consider allowing me the honor of naming you as my heir.”

“It is _ I  _ who am honored by the request,” replied the knight, regaining some of his customary composure. “And if the bequest gives you comfort, then I most gratefully accept.”

“Aymeric, really...” Estinien started, but was silenced by a slight wave of his partner’s hand and a sidelong glance.

“Ah, that eases my mind then, son,” replied Corbeau, replacing his cup and saucer on the table and easing back to rest fully against the propped pillows in his bed.

“I fear we have stayed overlong, that we have caused you some fatigue, sir,” Aymeric said, voice dropping to a whisper.

“No, not at all, Aymeric…” the older man replied, his closing eyes belying his sentiment.

Aymeric and Estinien stood then, trying to make as little noise as possible as they alerted the guards and withdrew.

“What do you think, love?” the knight asked his dragoon as they proceeded toward the wing of the Congregation that housed its ballet studio.

“I think he is sincere in his current intent,” Estinien said, unconsciously bringing his lance hand to his mouth, to gnaw nervously on the nail of his fourth finger. “But his feelings toward you have changed so precipitously in the last moon, that I am yet unsure how far I trust against a return to his prior antipathy.”

“Fair enough,” agreed Aymeric, with a nod, before returning to the day’s schedule. “At the fifth bell, then, this evening?” he asked, looking both ways to ensure they were alone in the corridor before pushing Estinien into a rough kiss against the equally rough stone walls, and grinding his pelvis suggestively against the taller man’s.

“Why must you persist in crushing me against walls lately, Aymeric?” the dragoon asked his lover’s rapidly retreating back once he had been released from the embrace. “And I expect my Siegfried to be punctual,” he shouted as he slouched back against the wall and crossed his arms, watching Aymeric lift a hand in a final backwards wave of acknowledgement before turning a corner.

  
  


Aymeric was late. He pushed through the doors of the studio at half past the fifth bell of the evening, behind his time and obviously fuming. 

“You’re late,” Estinien barked at him, his anxiety getting the better of his judgement. 

But before Aymeric could respond in what the older gentleman knew would be a regrettable manner, Pierrault jumped in with his usual warm salutations. “My dear Aymeric!” he enthused, shakily pressing himself up from the arms of his chair, steadying himself for a moment, and then walking slowly over to clasp the newcomer by both hands, his back held ramrod straight.

Estinien and Aymeric were equally surprised -- they hadn’t been aware that the Master’s recovery had progressed so far as to allow him to walk again. Forgetting their brewing quarrel in a wave of simultaneous congratulations, they each embraced Pierrault before Aymeric extended him his arm and helped the Ballet Master back to his seat.

“You have been holding out on us, Master,” Estinien teased with a mixture of relief and pride, unable to stop smiling at the man.

“Yes,” chimed in Aymeric. “We had no expectation you would make such a remarkable recovery.”

“Well,” returned the older man, “I daresay a lifetime spent at the barre prepared me well for the rigorous therapeutic exercises my healers have encouraged.”

It was then that something struck Estinien, as he watched Pierrault smiling contentedly back at them: _ this  _ was the very room in which it had happened -- in which the Ballet Master had, only weeks ago, taken a bullet to the chest, a bullet intended for Aymeric. Yet both his mentor and his beloved seemed entirely at ease here. Honestly, in the case of the Master he was not surprised. In Estinien’s experience, Pierrault remained calm and unperturbed whatever the circumstances in which he found himself -- a tendency that was likely what allowed him to react quickly enough to save Aymeric from yet another assassination attempt.

But his beloved...well, Estinien wondered if the many dire situations in which he had found himself within Ishgard’s walls had made Aymeric somewhat numb to any disturbing recollections lingering in rooms his duties as the young republic’s “Lord of Lords” yet forced him to revisit. Pierrault’s voice broke into his reverie.

“Well, my dear boys, I cannot tell you how exciting it has been to see the renovations moving forward at both the Ishgard Opera Ballet and Notre Furie University. ‘Tis an utter privilege to witness a nation reinventing itself, moving from a theocracy to a young republic. And so much of that has been initiated by you, Aymeric, and is still very much dependent on your actions in the multiple roles you serve here in Ishgard.” 

The public servant in question opened his mouth to, no doubt, dismiss the older man’s praise, but Pierrault hushed him with a raised finger, indicating he was not yet finished speaking. “And precisely that attitude, my young friend, the one that causes you to dismiss all personal grievances in order to continue in your selfless service to Ishgard, is what has me posing this next question to you.”

“What is it, Master?” Aymeric managed to insert as the older man paused for breath.

“Do you truly have the time to dance Siegfried, my boy? ‘Tis a much more extensive part than that of the Cavalier in “The Starlight Suite.” You will be onstage most of the ballet, making it both a time-consuming and tremendously physically taxing role,” the Ballet Master said gently.

“I will allow no one else to partner Estinien,” Aymeric replied, his own voice gone uncharacteristically cold. “No other man shall  _ touch _ him,” he nearly snarled.

Estinien looked at him, startled.

“Of course not, my dear,” replied Pierrault in a soothing tone, utterly unaffected by Aymeric’s sudden fierceness. “I would never suggest such a thing, and, in fact, I imagine that there are few indeed who possess strength enough to lift him as effortlessly as you do, child.” He paused for a moment, before continuing softly. “I had only thought that if your duties precluded it, Estinien might yet take over the role of the prince. There were some among the Gridanian dancers who possess both talent and will enough to dance Odette.”

“But...but I _ want _ to dance with Estinien. ‘Tis a pleasure I never dreamed of before he consented to be my Sugarplum, but having experienced it, I am loath to now part with it,” Aymeric admitted, lower lip trembling slightly. “Partnering Estinien -- lifting him, holding him, moving with him across the floor -- brings a most rare kind of joy to my days,” Aymeric nearly pleaded, his voice as small and tentative as that of a child begging to have her beloved teddy returned to her fond embrace. “It helps me to...to  _ endure _ , he said, exhaling a held breath.”

“Well, that’s decided then,” said Pierrault in a calm near-whisper. “I will make it work, my sweet boy, knowing how dearly you wish it.”

Estinien remained silent, his brows furrowed with concern, before scooting over to where his knight had settled on the studio floor. Folding himself protectively around his beloved companion, his long legs spanning ‘round Aymeric’s body and his arms curling about his lover’s waist to pull him flush against his lean chest, he felt his knight allow himself to go limp, his head leaning back on the dragoon’s shoulder.

“Many know the story of ‘Swan Lake,’” said the Master brightly, trying to distract Aymeric from his clear distress. “Owl-like sorcerer Rothbert curses lovely Princess Odette and her ladies, turning them into swans. This dread curse can only be broken by a prince whose love proves unerringly loyal to Odette. Fortunately for the princess, just such a prince lives nearby: Prince Siegfried is young, handsome, and, according to his royal mother, very much in need of a wife. He finds a wife to his liking in Odette, promises that  _ his  _ will be the love true enough to break her curse, but then breaks faith when encountering a girl enchanted to look like a darker, more sensual version of the princess. This fake Odette is Rothbert’s daughter Odile, commonly called the ‘Black Swan’ in most productions and danced by the same prima ballerina who dances Odette,” summarized Pierrault. “From that point there are a variety of endings to choose from, most of them involving Odette and Siegfried’s sacrifice of themselves to lift the curse from the remaining swan maidens.” 

“‘Tis a tragic tale, indeed,” voiced Aymeric.

“Yes, and perhaps a bit outdated as well, a bit clumsy. Despite the magic involved, I always have found it a bit difficult to accept Siegfried’s near-instantaneous betrayal of his love, and to feel sympathy for him when his own inconstancy costs him Odette. Similarly, I’m none too satisfied, having seen a few productions that stage a “happily ever after” ending, with the idea that Odette should so readily accept a man who has proven himself so fickle,” continued the Ballet Master.

“She deserves a more satisfactory ending, I think,” offered Estinien, still clutching Aymeric close to his chest. 

“I agree,” said Pierrault. “And that is why I think we should stage a very different “Swan Lake” -- a daring reinterpretation that frames the traditional story within the specific context of Ishgard and its history. It will take no little courage from the both of you, my dear boys,” Pierrault said, pausing for emphasis, “but it will also serve, I think, as a fine opening volley. You’ve shown the entrenched power base just where your allegiances lie, Aymeric, in much of the legislation you and your allies have proposed in the House of Lords. You’ve shown your commitment to education and the arts in your and the Count de Fortemps’ establishment of new institutions -- a university, ballet and opera companies, a symphony orchestra. And you have shown your regard for _ all  _ of Ishgard’s citizenry, not just the highborn, by prioritizing the construction of affordable housing in your own “brave o’er-hanging [F]irmament.” I imagine not everyone is happy with these changes,” Pierrault finished, nodding toward Aymeric.

“They wish to return to an Ishgard that, as Hraesvelgr’s truths have revealed, never actually existed,” Aymeric replied, his frustration making him incapable of hiding the scorn in his voice.

“And I wish to pointedly engage this poisonous, misplaced nostalgia by directing attention to recent events that exposed its supporting myth as duplicitous. These events, though,” said Pierrault, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, “very much concern the both of you. They continue to shape how Ishgard sees you both, Estinien in particular. Still, provocative as it may be, I believe that the staging of this story, as the Ishgard Opera Ballet’s inaugural effort, will communicate clearly what the New Ishgard most values: reason, the use of reason to imagine possibility, and, most importantly,  _ love _ ,” the Ballet Master finished, his eyes burning with certainty.

  
  


“Well, that certainly _ is _ a very… daring reinterpretation, as the Master suggested. Little else other than the swans and the prince remain of the original, and the antagonist, I suppose,” Estinien said, stopping before Aymeric’s bedroom and grinning at the way his lover opened the door with a gallant wave of his arm, indicating he wished for the dragoon to precede him inside. Estinien complied, stretching his arms above his head and yawning. It had been a long day and a more trying one than he had imagined. His partner, however, was apparently not yet ready for it to end. Sliding in quickly behind him, Aymeric shut and locked his door and reached out to pull Estinien back against his chest.

“Aymeric!” Estinien yelped out in surprise while his knight pushed aside his sweep of silver hair and bit him roughly on the nape, fiercely sucking until he drew blood up to spread underneath pale white skin, leaving a patch of angry purple. Using the leverage provided by his powerful legs, Aymeric then pushed away from the door upon which he was bracing both their bodies, lifted Estinien several inches off the floor to reverse their positions, and shoved the dragoon chest-first against a patch of open wall, immediately pressing himself tight against his partner’s back. “Aymeric,” Estinien said again, his voice low now, sympathetic. “Why are you doing this? What urges you to love me with so little tenderness?”

Aymeric answered with a quickly-stifled noise that was half-way between a gasp and whimper, and Estinien could feel him shaking against him as the knight dug his hands hard into the dragoon’s biceps -- as though Estinien’s body was the only thing keeping him upright. He pressed his face between his companion’s shoulder blades and started to weep, harsh tremors intermittently pulsing through his body.

“Ishgard is sick. It is broken and sick and I’m uncertain I have the power within me to heal it. It has hurt so many -- crushed you, me, Emil...so many others. And even  _ that _ poor of an assessment takes little consideration of the many graves founded on its millenia of untruths. I cannot fix it, Estinien. I cannot,” Aymeric lamented, his voice shaking with sobs.

“How is it possible for you to imagine the task belongs to you solely, my love?” Estinien rejoined, turning to face him as his knight relaxed his bruising hold. “We must all bear a part in Ishgard’s redemption just as surely as we all bear the blood of its founding crime,” he said softly, reaching his arms around Aymeric’s still-trembling form. “What has brought this on, Aymeric? What are Dzemael and his cohorts up to now?”

“They’ve been oozing about the corridors of the legislature all week, looking quite smug and assured, but the precise cause of their self-satisfaction just came across my desk today,” Aymeric explained, his voice growing tight with fury as it ceased its shaking. “They will bring a discussion of Ishgard’s sodomy laws to the floor of the House of Lords this next week.”

“Sodomy laws?” Estinien inquired, puzzled. “‘Tis illegal for us to fuck?” he continued, forgetting to persist in his gentle, calming tone. “I thought that was merely church law.”

“While technically two men fucking is fine, if they should choose to fuck  _ each other _ , well, then,  _ yes _ , said fucking falls foul of the law; ‘tis in the civil code as well as church doctrine,” Aymeric said, smiling ruefully at both his own attempt at a joke and Estinien’s look of irate disbelief. “But have no fear, my love. Their discussion will have no real consequence in terms of their ability to enact new legislation, either making the current laws more strict or wiping them from the books entirely; they have not the votes and sodomy laws are nigh impossible to enforce as it is,” he sighed. “‘Tis merely a ploy to embarrass me personally -- to discredit the Lord Speaker because he breaks the law and the Lord Commander because he does nothing to enforce a law he regularly defies.”

“More than regularly, I think,” Estinien said wryly. “The Lord Commander is, in fact, a  _ frequent  _ offender in regard to that particular law. But I thought  _ they _ were the ones agitating against too-heavy regulation of the Noble Houses and their activities,” he added thoughtfully, “and now they wish to legislate our  _ lovemaking _ ?” Estinien shook his head, incredulous.

“‘Tis all for show, Estinien -- and a fine show it will make for those unsympathetic to our vision of a New Ishgard. I...I did not ask to be a veritable Princeps, making the laws I’m charged with enforcing, and I am  _ ever  _ cognizant that my power within these city walls would be difficult to check if I were determined to exert it,” Aymeric said, his voice a low smoulder. 

“And that awareness is precisely why you, and only you, were chosen to wield that power: while you still choose to go without, my beloved Blue, you have yourself become the young republic’s shield against those who would seek solely their own benefit,” the dragoon said, his dark eyes shining with pride.

“My Silver,” Aymeric sighed out appreciatively, his face softening. Yawning then, fatigued with the endless maneuvering required in the performance of his duty, he made a motion to turn away. 

“Wait,” Estinien said, pushing the other man’s hands down to firmly grip his hips before Aymeric could start toward their bed. “Is this how you were thinking?” he asked, holding his lover’s hands in place as he turned to face the wall again. Letting go of Aymeric, he braced his arms hard against the wall’s smooth surface as his knight pressed tight against his back, his strong hands reaching around to undo the ties of Estinien’s trousers and shove them down to his thighs. “We are, the both of us, frequent and unrepentant lawbreakers, as you’ve so rightly pointed out,” Estinien said, his voice rising in its steadfast recalcitrance. “And at the moment,” he continued, rubbing his newly-bared ass up and down against his lover’s rapidly hardening cock, “I feel the urge to engage in some recidivism.”


	15. Act 1, Scene 2, Waltz: tempo di valse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinien meets someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is NSFW.

Estinien knocked on the outside of the windowpane, requesting entrance from the man still hurriedly scribbling on parchment even as he sat propped up on pillows in their bed, his dressing gown hanging open to bare his chest. Lifting his still-furrowed brows from his work as the persistent rapping caught his attention, Aymeric’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the imminent intruder, his face instantly shedding its scowl, to be replaced with an elated smile.

“Still unlocked,” tutted the silver-haired dragoon as he pushed up the sash and slid down to the bedroom floor before turning to shut out the flurry of scattered snowflakes that had followed him inside.

“Estinien!” Aymeric all but yelled, setting his work on the bedside table and bounding to embrace his companion. “I thought you were still for Dravania until the day after next.”

“Toh Y Thrah consented to an early departure as long as I promised she could return with me to Ishgard after my Summertime conclave with the Dravanian Elders. She misses you Aymeric,” he said, smiling.

“And I, her,” Aymeric said, genuinely pleased at the prospect of a visit from their young friend, “but I believe you can guess who I missed even more,” he continued, reaching to embrace the taller man. “Fury, that’s cold!” he shouted, making his own less substantial elusive jump backwards as his bare chest came into contact with Estinien’s metal breastplate.

“Cannot you wait but a moment, Aymeric,” Estinien scolded, starting to remove his armor.

“No, I cannot -- not when I’ve been denied for a full fortnight. Allow me to assist you with this at least,” Aymeric replied, kneeling to help with the buckles on Estinien’s fauld and greaves. “I missed you so,” he said, looking straight up at Estinien, unable to corral his face into an expression other than a smile so wide it burned. “And why did you choose such an unorthodox method of entry, anyway? Seeking to dodge Yvonne again?” Aymeric asked.

“She fusses worse than you, particularly when I’ve been away for more than a handful of days,” the dragoon replied distractedly, still focused on removing his armor. “And, speaking of fussing, before you ask,” he continued, removing his final pauldron, “I have already had my supper -- specifically so I  _ could _ dodge our beloved keeper until breakfast.”

“She’ll be hurt, Estinien,” Aymeric said, his ridiculous smile ebbing. 

“For but a moment, perhaps...before I give her these,” he said, holding up a string of roughly shaped, but still quite magnificent ruby beads. “Toh Y Thrah nosed them out all by herself, and then insisted on shaping them with as little help from Khash Thah and Orn Khai as possible,” he laughed.

“I predict that tears of exultation will water our morning porridge, Estinien. Yvonne will be beside herself,” Aymeric said, grinning again.

“Aye,” responded Estinien, “ though hopefully not for long. More than one Yvonne would have me in need of new armor within a moon.”

“You wouldn’t have to actually _ eat  _ everything she and her twin self cooked,” Aymeric teased.

“Is it  _ my _ fault your parents had the good sense to employ the best cook in all of Ishgard?” the dragoon rejoined.

“Oh, Estinien,” Aymeric sighed, interrupting their banter to wrap his arms tight around his companion’s thighs, pulling him off balance for a moment.

“Careful, love. I’ll fall on you,” Estinien cautioned, wobbling a little on his feet.

“I think not,” Aymeric replied, abruptly standing to lift the taller man over his shoulder. “To the bath with you.”

“Ayyy-meric,” Estinien drawled out the syllables in fond exasperation. “Must you always manhandle me so? I can walk, you know.”

Aymeric didn’t bother to reply, simply dumping the dragoon on the bed as he went to draw a bath. “Strip!” he commanded the other man.

“Aye, my Lord and Commander,” Estinien responded, making a mock salute as he struggled to turn himself on the soft feather mattresses. Sitting up to remove his tunic and peel off his stockings, he hopped off the bed and followed Aymeric into their large bathing chamber. 

“I thought I told you to strip,” Aymeric said, bent over a bathtub that defied the limits of the term; it could easily fit four full-size elezen. He tested the water before stopping its flow and then stood up to face Estinien. “Come here,” he said, voice dropping to a low purr as he pulled Estinien close by the leather ties of the dragoon’s own trousers. Shrugging off his dressing gown and tossing it into a corner of the room, he finally welcomed his beloved home with a kiss, touching chest to bare chest.

“Aymeric,” Estinien whispered into his mouth, breathless already, before using his slight advantage in height to crush himself into his knight, wrapping his arms around Aymeric’s torso to support him as he pressed his lover into such a deep kiss that he forced his entire body backwards. “I missed you so, so much.”

“I intend to make you quantify precisely how much -- to not, as that ‘age unwithered’ queen once suggested, ‘set a bourn how far to be beloved,’ Aymeric said, brushing his nose against Estinien’s when the dragoon surrendered him enough to make speech possible. “I need your love for me to exceed all limits, even the ones I might foolishly enact. But into the bath with you for now. I want my fingers in your hair,” he said, using those fingers instead to pull the ties of Estinien’s trousers loose enough that they could, together, push both trousers and shorts over the impediment of his tight, high ass -- an ass upon which one could balance a teacup (Aymeric had empirically confirmed the fact) -- until they were free enough to slide to the floor. 

Completely nude now, Estinien stepped out of his discarded clothing, kicking it into the same corner as Aymeric’s dressing gown, and into his bath. He settled slowly into the nearly too-hot water, easing himself in, as Aymeric kneeled outside the tub and scooped water into a porcelain jug ornamented with twisting vines of hanging wisteria, lilies of the valley, and peonies -- all May-blooming flowers. 

“Lean your head back,” he told Estinien, untying the strip of leather binding his lover’s striking white strands into the tail he’d taken to wearing again. “I wish to avoid getting water in your eyes.”

“I’m not a child, Aymeric,” Estinien snorted, but complied nonetheless, tilting his head back as Aymeric poured water over it, wetting his hair. With his partner’s encouragement, he reclined until his head rested on the edge of the bathtub, his length of long wet hair, darkened now to the colour of bone, hanging over to drip water on the room’s marble-tiled floor. Aymeric began, then, to work a wax-like substance through his strands, a substance that melted nearly the instant it was applied, leaving a pleasant, fruity scent in the air.

“‘Tis oil from coconuts, hard-shelled fruits that grow in the tropics,” the knight explained. “Even  _ your  _ snarls stand not a chance against it, and, what’s more, most of the oil will remain insoluble even when rinsed, softening your hair as it dries.” Retrieving a wide-toothed wooden comb from somewhere within his reach, his companion gently began to work the tool through Estinien’s wet tangles, meeting little resistance in the wake of the smoothing oil. “Now, we simply rinse the excess away,” Aymeric said, turning away for a moment to fetch his pitcher again. 

That was his mistake. In an instant, Estinien was upon him, clasping him underneath both arms and hauling him fully into the tub, still in his fine linen sleep trousers.

“Estinien!” he spluttered, water splashing into his face and hair, coating his dark lashes in tiny droplets, soaking his pants until they clung to his skin. “You hazard!” he said, pushing his companion against his bare chest before settling to sit beside him and dissolving into laughter. “You’ve splashed water all over the floor too,” he scolded, shoving him hard again in his left bicep. “Ugh, I hate being in wet clothes. Help me out of these, Estinien.”

“Gladly,” responded the dragoon.

Once they were both naked, Aymeric having tossed his soggy trousers in the middle of the puddle Estinien had already sloshed onto the tiles, increasing the reach of the expanding pool of water on their bathing chamber’s floor, he turned to straddle Estinien. His lover responded by looping both arms behind his shoulder blades so that his long fingers curled to grip Aymeric’s shoulders from behind. Then, pulling his lord with him, he took a breath and lay back into the bath. Aymeric remembered to breathe just before he was drawn under, where Estinien kissed him literally breathless. 

Opening his eyes underneath the water, Estinien saw Aymeric looking back at him, blue eyes smiling, and it suddenly struck him: the pressure in his ears, the dulled sound, his motions slowed and voice garbled, like he was moving and speaking underwater. He shot up into a sitting position, taking Aymeric along with him as he struggled to gasp for air, spitting out water. His eyes were huge, opened wide as his companion had ever seen them -- wide and unblinking.

“Estinien!” Aymeric shouted, alarmed. “What is it, my love? What’s frightened you so?”

Estinien had not yet gathered breath enough to respond, but remained simply heaving in his knight’s arms.

“Estinien,” Aymeric said again, but gentler this time. He could see the swirling aether, Estinien’s own life energy, coalescing at either side of his skull, steadily growing his draconic horns, making them ever more solid with each of the dragoon’s panicked breaths. Glancing about him quickly, Aymeric took a fine-milled, lavender-scented conch from a stack of similar soaps, all molded into the shapes of various seashells, and lathered up the dragoon’s chest and shoulders, moving his hand in gentle, soothing circles. He reached for his discarded pitcher next, filling it over and over again, and continuing to pour warm water down Estinien’s body long after the last soap residue was rinsed away.

“Aymeric...my...my dream,” Estinien said finally, gulping for air as he tried to regain control over his breathing.

“The one where I did not survive our first dragon?” the other man inquired, having recently drawn the details of that recurring night terror from his reluctant dragoon.

Estinien nodded shakily, still breathing hard.

“Oh, my love,” Aymeric said, taking the other man in his arms. “I’m here, alive and breathing, heart beating faster with every glance, touch, every kiss we share. Here,” he said, taking Estinien’s hand from under the water and holding it against his chest. “Feel it?” he asked.

“I do,” Estinien answered, finally lifting his gaze again to meet Aymeric’s eyes. He focused on the light therein, using it to ground himself, to steady his breath. “You’re here,” he said,” echoing his lover’s words, “alive and breathing.” Estinien exhaled a long breath, then paused a beat or two before re-drawing air into his lungs. “I feel your heart,” he continued, pressing his hand against Aymeric’s chest, “and I wish it to beat, to beat still faster for me.” Drawing in another long breath as he stared into Aymeric’s eyes and felt the pulsing of his knight’s heart against the palm of his wet hand, Estinien’s features suddenly relaxed. “I’m...I’m alright, Aymeric,” he said, clearly surprised by the fact. “I...just...I just...thank you,” he sighed finally, unable to fully voice his feelings.

“As if I would choose to be anything other than the balm to ease your suffering, my dearest one,” Aymeric interrupted, watching Estinien for a moment as the aether haloing his head dispersed, leaving no draconic features behind. Breathing a sigh of relief, the knight reached out to gather his lover close to his chest again.

“I love you so, Aymeric,” Estinien replied, dropping his head forward onto his companion’s shoulder as he continued to breathe in and out, slow and regular for several moments. “And...I...I want...” he tried to get out, throat closing off his voice as he grew more mortified by his fit of terror.

“What is it, love?” his companion coaxed gently. “What is it that you wish for?”

“I wish for...you,” Estinien blurted out, cheeks blushing pink and warm. “If you’ll yet have me.”

“Always, Estinien,” Aymeric replied, his brow creasing as he wondered what could possibly make the other man doubt his want for him.

“Forgive me...for my... weakness. It certainly spoiled the mood,” Estinien mumbled into Aymeric’s skin.

“‘Tis no weakness, Estinien. Especially not for you. That you would allow yourself to love me -- to love again at all -- shows precisely the opposite,” Aymeric answered, placing a quick kiss on the dragoon’s temple. “Shall we continue, then, where we left off -- perhaps switch places?” he asked.

Estinien answered by shifting his body out from underneath his knight’s and allowing Aymeric to sit with his back braced against the side of the bathtub. He moved to sit on the edge of the tub for a moment, reaching for the container that held the coconut oil. “Water insoluble?” he asked again, a slight smirk lifting a corner of his mouth.

“Indeed,” Aymeric replied, answering with his own grin.

“We’ll see,” said the silver-haired man, scooping out two fingers full of the hardened oil, before reaching behind to make proper use of the waxy substance. Sliding back into the still-warm water, Estinien settled himself over his knight, straddling his lap. He rooted his fingers through Aymeric’s wet curls, supporting his lover’s head as he bent to kiss warm lips, to slip his tongue between them, tasting Aymeric’s sweetness -- all birch-syrup tea and red wine. “May I touch you?” he asked, lips still against his knight’s.

“P...please,” Aymeric answered, his breath catching at the request. 

Estinien responded by gently stroking Aymeric’s rapidly thickening erection several times under the water before shifting forward to rub his own cock against his lover’s, opening his hand enough to loosely grip them both. His knight moaned softly and leaned his head back on the side of the bath, slowly rocking his hips into his partner's fist, the feel of Estinien’s hardness against his own bringing him to nigh-painful tumescence. 

Studying his lover for a moment, the dragoon watched his eyes flutter shut, listened to the continuous soft moans exhaled through parted lips as he slid his hand up and down the two of them together, velvet-soft skin to skin. He rocked himself in rhythm with Aymeric, with the lazy pumping motion of his own fist for a few more moments -- a few more deliciously indulgent strokes. Then, releasing himself while still holding Aymeric steady to guide him, he shifted further forward until he could sink fully down onto his lover’s rigid shaft.

“Oh Sweet Fury, Estinien,” Aymeric panted out, arching and gasping -- scrabbling with his elegant fingers on the smooth marble of the bathtub as though seeking for bedsheets to grasp.

“Aymeric,” Estinien agreed in a low rumble, closing his own eyes to luxuriate in the feeling of his knight’s hard cock pressed deep inside his body. 

A breath of stillness passed before they moved simultaneously -- by mutual instinct -- knowing the rhythm of each other’s desires: while Aymeric might have preferred a more drawn-out, languorous start, and occasionally insisted upon just that, he knew from their extended intimacy that Estinien rode hard and fast from the moment he mounted. The knight did not hesitate, in this instance, to indulge his lover’s wants, pumping the dragoon’s thick arousal as he pistoned his hips rapidly up into Estinien, forcing his cock against that point of contact that would spur his dragoon’s release.

“Ah, yes, ‘meric!” Estinien rasped. “There..oh...Fury, just _ there _ ,” he panted.

Aymeric braced his pelvis then, held himself still so that Estinien could choose the pace at which to grind that ecstatic ilm of flesh inside against Aymeric’s hard length.

“Oh my love, I am  _ so _ close,” Aymeric said in a tense whisper, Estinien’s increasingly feral enjoyment -- his heat trembling on Aymeric’s cock, fingernails scratching red lines on his shoulders -- drawing the stalwart cavalier closer to his own pleasure. “I long to feel you quiver in my hand,” he muttered, still steadfastly stroking the wet knap of his lover’s velvet length. 

“Aymeric!” Estinien cried, his entire body jolting rigid as he was pushed to orgasm by his lover’s admission. Throwing his head back and arching his spine, coming hard, Estinien pressed his pink rosebud nipples close enough that Aymeric could draw one between his lips and suck, making the dragoon groan his pleasure even louder. His knight was lost to the sound, pulsing his seed to spill deep inside his beloved as he stuttered out Estinien’s name, nearly incoherent.

“That was more expedited than I intended,” Estinien admitted, still panting. “Aymeric,” he said sharply, shaking the other man, whose eyes remained closed, head still lolling back over the side of the tub.

“Hmm?” the knight replied, blearily opening his eyes and trying to focus on his lover’s face.

“Did you come so hard you passed out?” Estinien asked, concerned.

Aymeric seemed to consider it for a moment, his head still muzzy. “I think, perhaps...yes,” he said, struggling to gather his words into comprehensible order.

“Come then,” Estinien said, stepping out of the tub and bending to scoop Aymeric up in his arms.

“Already did, that’s the problem,” Aymeric answered with a yawn and a sleepy smirk. “We need a mop,” he said, crooking his neck to survey the bathroom floor, “before Yvonne sees this.”

“I’ll fetch it,” the dragoon replied, “but you need your  _ bed  _ more. You were most likely worn out before we even began,” he said, entering the bedroom. Placing Aymeric in a sitting position at the foot of the bed, he toweled him dry, from his curls to his toes. 

“Come to bed with me,” Aymeric said, clutching at his lover.

“I will,” Estinien responded, “but first the mop,” he said as he helped Aymeric scramble up the feather mattress and under the covers, before fully tucking him in.

“Good night, love,” Aymeric said, snuggling into the duvet.

“Sleep now, sweet fool,” the dragoon replied, bending to kiss his brow. 

He wrapped a towel ‘round his still-wet hair then, piling it turban-style atop his head, before sliding his own lanky body into Aymeric’s discarded dressing gown -- reclaimed from the bathroom floor along with his own clothing -- and heading out into the corridor to look for a mop. Peeking around each corner as he went, terrified at incurring his beloved Yvonne’s wrath once she realized she’d been denied the pleasure of feeding him, Estinien padded through the manor’s halls with the stealth of Greymaulkin himself.

  
  


“So Dzemael and his allies went ahead with their discussion of the sodomy laws, then?” Estinien asked over breakfast the next morning.

“Yes,” Aymeric replied, a hard edge in his voice. “Though not with the intention some might have predicted,” he said. “The Lord has been graciousness itself in his suggestion that the laws be struck from the civil code -- though not without numerous insinuations, all delivered with the requisite obsequious simpering, that such relics of a once-hallowed but now outdated morality are an embarrassment, in particular, to Ishgard’s representative to the more permissive members of the Eorzean Alliance.”

“Meaning you,” said Estinien pointedly.

“Meaning me,” Aymeric answered with a sigh, “ with the obvious suggestion that my embarrassment springs not merely from the existence of the laws, but from that fact that I regularly defy them.”

“Horrible man,” Yvonne added, bustling through to shove yet more sausages upon Estinien’s plate. “Head swelled so full of himself that I’m surprised he has yet to float off the top of that heraldic tower of his,” she said fiercely. “More coffee, love,” she asked the dragoon, features abruptly shifting from irate to affectionate as she hovered over Estinien with the tall silver coffee pot. 

He reached out to grasp her free hand, kissing her plump little fingers, before informing her that yet another cup would have him floating right along after Dzemael. Estinien leaned back from the still fair-faced woman, then, as though apprising her appearance somehow. “They suit you,” he said finally, smiling up at the woman as he gestured to his own neck.

“Far too fine for the likes of me, really,” Yvonne answered, preening just a little as she stroked the ruby beads around her neck. “But since they were a gift from that sweet child, shaped by her own breath nonetheless…and what a talented thing she’s become. Don’t you agree, my dearest boys, first the dancing and now this jewelcraft,” the rosy little hyuran said, interrupting herself in her rush to boast of the young dragonet as she would one of her own grandchildren. “I would be most hardhearted to do anything but wear them with pride,” she reasoned.

“Indeed, you would,” Aymeric agreed, smiling warmly at her -- the only smile his lover had yet seen reach his eyes on this morning when he was scheduled to return to Parliament after a Feast-day break in the session. “Of course Dzemael’s quip about ‘outdated morality’ had the more stodgy cohort, the most outwardly devout of our lords, instantly lamenting how Ishgard’s degeneracy since the end of the war was an affront to Halone’s Sacred Will,” Aymeric said, turning the conversation back to his parliamentary adversaries, unable to be distracted for the few remaining minutes before he had to face them in the flesh. “What I truly fear, however, is that Dzemael’s recent maneuvering forecasts a more determined overall strategy. There’s been a new face sighted at the manor as of late, a face that’s well associated with political intrigue...”

“And who might that be?” Estinien interrupted in the slight pause in which Aymeric paused to clear his throat from its morning roughness. 

Aymeric flashed him an exasperated look before continuing. “‘Tis Lea Au Lac, my impatient dragoon.”

“Never heard of her,” Estinien returned.

“Estinien, come now, my darling. Do you pay no attention at all to current events?” Yvonne interjected, chiding her beloved charge. “She’s the Sharlyan political consultant Lord Lolorito employed to create a messaging campaign extolling the virtues of the Sultanate.” 

“Yes, to promote the ideas of constancy and tradition inherent in a monarchy against the ‘radical changes’ a transition to representative government might propose,” Aymeric explained further. “With no mention, however, that Ul-dah’s ostensible monarchy has, with the rise of his own Syndicate, long ago succumbed to the kleptocrats.”

“And how in Eorzea did you come to know about this political paragon, my dear Yvonne?” Estinien asked, flustered by his ignorance. He did, after all, like to keep himself abreast of the realm’s geopolitics, just in case there was a cannon needing disabling, a friend requiring a last-minute assist on the battlefield, or a deadly chemical weapon to destroy.

“I read the paper, Estinien,” Yvonne replied with a sly little grin, brushing his fringe aside to place a kiss on his brow. “And another thing, my little love,” she said, keeping his hair from slipping back to comfortably obscure his features by securing it with a stout metal pin she’d produced from somewhere on her person: “if you’re so determined to avoid me upon returning home, make less clatter in the broom closet and don’t drip so in the hallway,” she said primly, before turning about and bundling herself back to the kitchen.

“I regret having left you amidst this...pile of chocobo dung,” Estinien said as he walked Aymeric to his chambers. Pulling the pin from his hair as soon as he felt himself safe from Yvonne’s spying, the dragoon shook his head so his fringe veiled his eyes once more. Aymeric laughed fondly at the sight -- his last bit of merriment for bells, Estinien was certain -- before exhaling a long sigh.

“You had no choice, Estinien. Like it or not, you’re the keystone upon which we continue to build good relations with the Dravanians. You have your duties still, just as I have mine,” his lord replied.

And it truly was his “lord” who spoke the closer they came to the halls of state; Estinien could see Aymeric transition to “Lord Speaker” as they walked, his eyes dimming as his features assembled themselves into a more neutral expression. Even his stride was different, slower and more weighty, as though each ankle were suddenly encumbered with a ten-pound shackle. An image flashed in Estinien’s mind, replaying the terror of the moment in which he’d seen his beloved restrained by precisely such impediments, and he nearly gasped out loud. Swallowing the sound, he attempted to cover his momentary distress, but could not keep his face from blanching white.

“What is it, love?” Aymeric asked, abruptly shedding the “Lord Speaker” in his concern for his companion. 

“‘Tis nothing, Aymeric,” the dragoon replied, smiling wanly. “Shall I escort you from your chambers to the studio this evening?” he asked, trying to nudge the look of concern from his lover’s face by distracting him. It was a ploy that almost never worked with Aymeric de Borel -- a man used to having to consider several things at once.

“You can’t shake me that easily, my Silver One,” he said, suddenly gripping his dragoon by the waist and hoisting him high into the air. Surprised by such a public display of their intimacy, Estinien, nevertheless, instinctually jumped into the lift, locking gazes with Aymeric as his lover spun him in a full rotation before setting him lightly upon the flagstones. The knight beamed at his knight dragoon then, a warm smile, genuine and yearning. “I missed you so, Estinien,” he said, “And in answer to your inquiry, yes. Meet me in my chambers at the fourth bell. We’ll walk to the studio from there.” 

They parted then, Estinien watching Aymeric stride heavily toward his duty, the towers of the Vault looming above him.

When Estinien arrived at the Lord Speaker’s chambers later that afternoon, he was wholly unprepared for what awaited him inside, for  _ who _ awaited him inside, actually. She was familiar, that was for certain -- an image of her creamy skin, of her long throat bared as she tipped her head back in pleasure underneath him, flashed through his mind, causing him to flush to his ear tips nearly the moment he entered the room. Now if he only could recall her name; his mind shuffled through several...dozens, and he still couldn’t pull the right one from his suddenly churning memory. Lord Dzemael provided his assistance. 

“Ser Estinien,” the nobleman crooned, unctuous and cloying in his dissembled courtesy. “Allow me to introduce Lady Antoinette de Bourbonne, formerly of House Durendaire.”

Durendaire! Of course, thought Estinien. Antoinette. He remembered her now; she was sweet, hesitant, not a virgin but not much beyond it if memory served. He remembered being taken aback by her demureness. Ladies born to the High Houses well knew their worth and were typically unabashed in taking what they wanted of the low-born Azure Dragoon. Estinien hadn’t minded back then. Before he had allowed himself to truly feel his need for Aymeric, he had been rapacious, accepting what was offered and caring little and less as long as he was left sated. 

He remembered liking Antionette though, had considered the possibility of a brief affair even, before the girl was whisked out nearly from underneath him, married off to a son of a particularly old and respected house. The man had died to the war soon thereafter, leaving her widowed and expecting a child who would never see her father. He had been a brave knight too, had sacrificed himself to save his men, so the story went. Estinien remembered feeling quite sorry for Antoinette when he had learned of her husband’s death. 

“Lady Bourbonne has become a student of Master Pierrault as of late,” Aymeric started, gesturing graciously to the lady in question. “In the course of her instruction, the Master became aware of her talent at the virginals and has subsequently requested her assistance as both a rehearsal pianist and a member of your swan corps, my dear,” the lord explained in his usual cordial tones, only slightly shocking Estinien at his casual use of the endearment in front of his political nemesis. “Lord Dzemael had wondered if we might escort Her Ladyship to the studio this evening, since we were heading that way ourselves,” Aymeric concluded. Doing his best to not register his surprise, Estinien glanced quickly at Aymeric, detecting the flicker of something strange within the depths of his lover’s seemingly warm gaze. 

“I am perfectly capable of making my way to the Congregation alone, my honored friends,” Antoinette responded with grace.

“I would not hear of such a thing, Antoinette,” rejoined Dzemael, oozing solicitude, “ and I am certain the Lord Viscount agrees.”

“Ser Estinien and I would be honored by your company, milady” Aymeric returned, thoroughly unruffled as he expertly navigated the required calls and responses of highborn society. 

“Just the courtesy I expected of our esteemed Lord Speaker,” the Count continued in his self-assigned role. “Then, my own duty concluded, I take my leave of you for the evening: My Lady, Lord Aymeric, Ser Estinien,” he said, giving a slight bow to each before turning to depart.

Estinien felt himself exhale slightly. He was glad of Count Dzemael’s departure. It still left him with Antoinette, though -- with Antoinette and Aymeric. ‘Twas quite some time since he’d been in the company of both a prior and current lover and Estinien found the situation utterly mortifying -- even more so because he  _ knew _ Aymeric knew; Estinien had told him himself. 

On the night that would culminate, after some initial disruption, in his and Aymeric’s very first kiss, he had encountered Antoinette playing the virginals at a party both Lord Commander and Azure Dragoon had been required to attend. Estinien had arrived late, skirting the social requirements of his position, as always. Watching Aymeric’s ease among the company before he made his presence known, stomach burning at the thought that the Lord Viscount de Borel might choose a wife from the assembled ladies ere long, the dragoon had then _ boasted _ to his friend of his experience with the girl, manufacturing a not unpleasant interlude into hyperbolic masculine posturing in order to...he didn’t know what. Impress Aymeric? Play the role expected of him? He knew not what to think or say. Lady Bourbonne came to his rescue.

“Ser Estinien, Lord Aymeric, I must apologize. ‘Twas graceless of the Count to foist me into your company in a way so calculated to embarrass,” she said, long skirts rustling as she moved to take Estinien by the hand. “I was in Gridania for the Starlight Suite, me and my little Annemarie both. We saw how you danced with the Lord Viscount, Estinien,” she continued, looking up into his eyes and addressing him frankly. “You were  _ perfection _ . Even my child, not yet five Summers old, said the Cavalier’s eyes ‘shined like happy stars’ when he held his Sugarplum. And seeing that happiness, seeing you and Lord Aymeric together, inspired me to absent myself from my long sorrow and seek out Master Pierrault’s instruction. I cannot tell you the joy my return to music, to dancing, has brought me, and for that reason alone -- disregarding even the great service you continue to provide Ishgard -- I would wish you nothing but bliss, my dear, dear friend,” she concluded, squeezing his hand between both of her own, her eyes filled with warmth.

Estinien just stared at her, eyes wide and throat closed tight, unable even to gasp out a response.

“Lady Bourbonne,” Aymeric interjected, stepping in close to lift one of the noblewoman’s hands from Estinien. He bent low to kiss it, in perfect courtier fashion, before drawing Antoinette toward him, refusing to relinquish the small white hand engulfed now in his own. She was forced to turn completely from the dragoon and face the Lord Commander. “You do us great honor in your praise of our performance in the Starlight Suite, and I am certain Estinien is most grateful for your forthrightness, as I most certainly am,” he said smiling down at her. 

But that smile...there was something strange there, Estinien thought. Was there just a touch of something almost...sultry in it. Was Aymeric trying to be seductive? It was a nearly inconceivable concept to the dragoon. His lover never _ tried _ to be alluring; he had no need.

“Shall we?” inquired Aymeric, offering his arm to Lady Bourbonne, who accepted it dutifully, allowing the lord to lead her from his chambers and out into the chill.

Estinien followed, watching, mesmerized now by the nearly coeurl-like way Aymeric moved his body as they walked toward the Congregation. Like a big cat stalking his prey, Aymeric slunk across the flagstones, each step, each gesture, even the way he caught his companion’s eyes as he made the required small talk, was invested with a sinuous grace that his lord had clearly cultivated for a purpose. Estinien was bewildered by the behavior. A man less certain of his beloved might have been made jealous by it, assuming seduction was Aymeric’s intent, but the dragoon knew better. He thought instead that the Lord Viscount de Borel was doing something akin to a peacock displaying his fan of feathers, to an elk brandishing his five-pointed rack; he was trying to out-sex rather than seduce, trying to declare to his beloved’s former lover that  _ he _ was the more desirable partner. The realization struck Estinien as somewhat...odd, and certainly out of character for Aymeric. Regardless, there was nothing he could do at the moment but dumbly follow the pair through streets sunk in the gloaming of an Ishgardian Winter’s eve.

Upon reaching the studio, taking their leave of Lady Bourbonne at the piano, and changing into their tights and slippers amidst the piles of tutus which Estinien had so recently refused to consider as a suitable substitute for their bed, the dragoon tried to find his voice: “Aymeric, I…”

“There’s need for neither apology nor explanation, Estinien. ‘Tis not as though I was unaware of your past. Hells, during our time in the ‘Knights,’ I imagined with envy each touch laid upon your bare skin, I  _ yearned _ for you so. My only regret in regard to your... _ experience _ in such matters is that I have so little to match it,” Aymeric sighed out. “You were my first, Estinien -- my only. I must be tiresome to you in that regard,” he continued, an odd coldness underlying his tone.

“Never, Aymeric!” Estinien responded, grabbing his lover by the hands and whipping him around to face him. “I love you! And while that intensity of emotion is certainly not required of a sexual encounter, sharing my body’s pleasure with one for whom I feel so deeply elevates a mere physical experience to one that is sublime. I have bedded many, Lady Bourbonne among them; I have  _ made love _ to you alone, Aymeric.”

“Estinien,” the knight started, his features softening, voice warming, before they were interrupted by a rapid pounding on the door. Sighing, he turned, emerging from the Studio’s storage closet to greet Bloom Rising, hand poised to knock again.

“Bloom, ‘tis been too long,” he said, offering a genuine smile despite the intrusion.

“Your duties are many, my friend,” responded the woman, regarding him for an extended moment before returning his warm smile. “Jump into it,” she said playfully, giving him only that meager warning before grasping his waist and lifting him high. “You’ll do,” she continued, smiling a bit more broadly as she set the knight down again.

“Our Rothbart,” said Estinien from behind Aymeric’s shoulder.

“Ah, I had forgotten,” nodded Aymeric.

“‘Twas the black horns I think, that most recommended me for the role,” said Bloom.

“And the fact that you can lift the both of us...possibly at the same time,” Estinien teased, grinning up at the woman now.

“Well, you lifted me once in recent memory,” Bloom returned. 

“I clasped you ‘round your waist, prayed to the Fury and jumped,” Estinien laughed, “and then I drug you the rest of the way to Aymeric.”

“Still, I intend to return the favor,” she said, peremptorily turning the dragoon and hoisting him into a dramatic overhead lift, his back in a graceful curve, chest arching toward the ceiling, with the pointed foot of one leg framing a triangle as it touched the knee of his other, fully extended leg. Steadying her partner before removing her left hand from the back of his pelvis, Bloom increased the drama of the pose by supporting the elezen with only one strong arm.

“Brava!” Aymeric extolled, clapping his hands as the woman set his lover back upon his own two feet.

“Thou hast provided sufficient proof of thine own strength, my dear, but, if I recall my grandsire’s notes, ‘tis a pas de trois at the finale,” offered Urianger Augurelt, gliding up behind Bloom and smiling.

“Urianger, how are you, my friend…”Aymeric began, but was quickly interrupted by his partner.

“You’re saying we must lift Bloom?” Estinien inquired, looking somewhat doubtful.

“Aye,” answered the scion, “ and without the aid of thy dragoon jump I’m afraid.”

“Mayhap if we do it together,” suggested Aymeric as Bloom nearly bent double in laughter. 

She so rarely laughed that all three elezen turned to stare for a moment.

“I beg your pardon, my friends,” Bloom said. “The other races’ near universal bewilderment at our sheer size never fails to amuse most roegadyn, me among them apparently,” she continued, still shuddering in her mirth. 

“Come then, we must prove our mettle, my dearest,” Aymeric said, motioning for Estinien to join him.

Together, their hands clasping her waist, Estinien and Aymeric easily lifted Hydalyn’s Chosen, supporting her across the floor in a series of floating grand jetés.

“Marvelous!” shouted Master Pierrault, looking up from several sheets of parchment through which he’d been rifling as he entered the room. “I had no doubt Ishgard’s knights were strong enough to serve,” he said, acknowledging all those assembled in the studio with warm smiles and gestures of welcome as he made his way over to the group. “See here, my friends,” Pierrault pointed to the documents he held. “Guild Master Rose was gracious enough to send an experienced designer of stagewear to us -- to help train those Ishgardian weavers interested in helping the opera, theater and ballet. She has produced these lovely designs for us,” he continued, gesturing to the papers he held. 

“In blue, of course,” Estinien snorted, pointing to the powder-blue ensemble imagined for Aymeric’s Prince Siegfried. 

“A cape grand enough to suit thee, my dearest,” Urianger said to Bloom as they turned to Bloom’s costume of black, feather-studded silk.

“And for you, our Odette,” Pierrault started, flipping to the drawings on the final two pages. The first, while lovely, was not terribly different from Estinien’s Sugarplum costume -- snow-white tights and a short coat embroidered with shining silver accents. The second, however… “Yes,” the Master agreed, acknowledging their gasps of surprise at the last image. “Side-stepping tradition, I had thought it might be more resonant, for an Ishgardian audience at least, to exchange soot for fire, to swap out the black for a blazing Red Swan.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize that this fic has not been been subjected to my usually stringent proofing. Proofing for me means reading the damned text over and over until my eyeballs fall out and the sentences no longer make sense. Then I turn it over to the slowest proof-reader in the history of humankind and he takes a look at it "at some point." Seriously, that's why I had to post that first thing I wrote chapter by chapter; he absolutely refused to look at more than one chapter a day. Sigh.
> 
> Well, my eyeballs are, in fact, unlike those of certain Dravanians and Uchihas, still firmly entrenched in my head, and I've decided to forgo my husband's "help." Thus, "here there will be errors." Sorry about that. Though I really hope I didn't make the plural/possessive one anywhere. That one is so ubiquitous in print it sort of sinks into folks' skulls and they start repeating it.
> 
> Also, take a listen to Tchaikovsky's music for the Nutcracker Pas de Deux. It's not nearly as well known as much of the Nutcracker music, but it is so beautiful. It just breaks even my little black heart to think of Estinien and Aymeric dancing to it.


End file.
